Soul: The Earthbound
by kamelion
Summary: A mysterious being is more than he claims, and much more than Sam and Dean Winchester expect. Will his timely arrival save them, or condemn them?
1. Chapter 1

Warning: Don't be fooled by what you read. Just keep reading, and trust me. Rated for language and vague adult situations. Usual disclaimers apply. This is for fun only. Or agony, depending on your side of the writing spectrum.

This is a completed story posted in parts, as I'm still tweaking. Therefore the mistakes are mine. Please review! It helps.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**"The soul is perfect. Perfect beauty, perfect agony. The world shows truth in one plane of existence, and to the soul, it is the only one that matters." -Kamelion**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I roam the night unseen. Fragrances are flung at me almost abusively, too much for my mortal senses to handle. I ceased being human ages ago, a lifetime ago. I crawled out of that hell hole with the rest of them, and found myself overrun with the sensation of being alive.

Only I'm not. Not really.

There are those that would put me back. I won't let them. I worked too hard to get here, this is my right.

I am not evil. I never asked for this to happen.

I have to fight. I have to find someone to help me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He's been hanging around the bar a lot. Downing the beers, asking for something stronger, bitching at the bartender whose saying he's has enough. I can feel the burn of liquor in his throat as it slides down to torture his chest. He winces a lot too, like the drink is distasteful to him, but he picks up another shot and throws it back. Women are noticing him, and he gives them a mild smile, but it is a smile that wards them off, and he does nothing. I know that's not in his nature, that something is seriously wrong.

There isn't much to do about it, other than watch.

His fingers play along the rim of the glass, his vivid eyes watching his own slow movement as the tip circles the edge. Around and around, mesmerizing, he's hypnotizing himself, distracting himself from whatever thoughts are going on in that lovely head of his. His eyes draw me to him, and I let my sight slide down the bridge of his nose to the full lips beneath, and wonder how many women he's made very, very happy with that pout. I love him before meeting him, and yet I've known him for so long.

I'm an abomination. Heaven cast me out, hell spat me back. I'm a mere thing. I shouldn't be capable of this emotion.

But he looks so damn needy. And as the saying goes, I'm a sucker for kicked puppies.

Not that he's incapable. I've seen him work. Even now he sits in the corner like a coiled tiger, waiting, ready to pounce, every muscles taut under that sleek skin of his. Even in his inebriated state, he's watching. Not closely, but he's watching.

His eyes find mine for the third time that evening. This time I lock gazes with him, those moss-gold eyes connecting with my own. They widen slightly, and I know why. First, it's disconcerting to be stared at, particularly by one of your own sex. Two, my eyes are as striking as his, more so. Gold and brown and green and blue, all flecked together like a bewildered gemstone. A result of too many centuries of not knowing who I am. My eyes are as confused as the dark blond and russet tones of my hair. As confused as my soul.

He tilts his chin up towards me in acknowledgment, hiding his discomfort, and returns to his drink. After a moment, he see that I'm still staring at him, and this time the response is more bitter. His eyes speak to me, _what the fuck do you want_?

So eloquent.

I raise my own shot glass to him and down it, hanging on to his gaze the whole time. His fear fuels me, his uncertainty is like a narcotic. His determination is palpable. He's a walking high.

And he's finished. I've throughly freaked him out. He slams his glass down on the table top and stands, not as wobbly as one might think for someone who seems to have consumed half his body weight in liquor. He fumbles in his wallet and pulls out some bills, crumples them slightly, and tosses them onto the table, obviously not caring if it went to the proper person or was snatched up by a pool hawk. Not his problem. More pressing issues concern him, and drinking himself into a near stupor has pissed him off and brought him no closer to his answer.

How do I know all this?

I'm just good like that.

I rise to follow him. He prides himself on knowing what's in the dark, but on this night he isn't safe.

He doesn't linger at the doorway of the bar, but swiftly chooses a direction and takes it, his boots clomping and scuffing heavily on the cracked sidewalk. Neon lights sail over his head and down his back, and he hunches against it uncomfortably, like he doesn't belong here.

I walk behind him, my hands tucked into my long leather coat. I walk with a confidence that he once had.

He turns into an alley. I know where he's headed. Some rat-hole dump forced into a grimy wall on Stalin Street. The proprietor is a shit-faced hag of a species. I'm not sure he's human. The alley is long and dark, and this young man navigates it like an old friend. He's used to dark places. And he hears me behind him, and picks up his pace.

He's out of time.

I sail forward, my long coat flapping behind me, and knock him into the brick wall as a black figure dives down from the fire escape above us. Its shrill cry hurts my sensitive ears, and pisses me off. I fling my arms at it, driving it back into the sky, and pull the hunter down beside me as it dives again. The sharp beak turns into a gaping mouth, and a long, snake-like tongue flashes out and wraps around my wrist, stinging like acid. I yell out, I can't help it.

He's on it in an instant, flashing a knife that he'd pulled from one of his many hiding places, plunging it towards the bird. It caws and releases me, only to go for his eyes. I grab it by the throat and break it's neck. There is no sound of death other than the crack, and it disappears.

He's laying on his side, propped on one elbow, half-hidden within my cloak. He looks up at me, wide-eyed, breathing hard. He scans the alley quickly. "You okay?" he asks, as though I'm the one on the ground and he's on his feet.

"I'll live." With me, it's merely a figure of speech.

"What the hell was that thing?"

"That," I say with equanimity, "was a Spurt."

His frown tightens, and his voice raises a pitch. "A what?"

"Spurt. As in a spurt of negative energy."

"That was a bird."

I smile. "Yes, that was a bird. If you knew the answer, why did you ask?"

He was coming to his senses. His gasps lessen as he looks at me. "Who the hell are you?"

"You can call me Zach."

He's not sure what to make of the suddenness of the situation, or of the fact that he's met someone who isn't freaking out about what just happened. He nods faintly. "You were in the bar."

"I was."

"You followed me." He glanced around the alley. "You knew this would happen."

"I did."

"How?"

"I've been watching you."

Those eyes, those wonderful, insightful, torrid eyes, narrow at me in suspicion. "Why?"

"To help you."

He hasn't made a move to rise. I have that effect on people, locking them down, making myself the only thing they are concerned with. "Help me with what?"

"You know."

Unfortunately the effect doesn't last long. He shoves me aside, what strength! and pushes to his feet. "I don't need your help."

"Apparently you do."

"I could have handled that!"

"I'm sure. But at least give me the illusion that I saved your life. It helps my ego."

His expression is incredulous. I love it.

"At the least you could offer me a drink."

"I've had enough to drink," he mutters, and I know he's still questioning what has happened.

"Unfortunately, I haven't." I gesture with an outstretched arm down the alley.

"I don't have anything to offer you." His meaning is obvious: in other words, butt out.

"You've bought enough beer to last you another month. Which surprises me. Why are you at a bar if you already have drink?"

But my first sentence stops him. "_Another_month?"

He's fast. I raise my brows, and meet his sudden defiance with an open stare. "I'll tell you what. You give me a beer, and I'll give you an explanation."

"Look. I appreciate your help, but forget it." He starts to turn away.

"Sam's life depends on it."

He stops breathing. I wait for his chest to rise and fall. It takes forever. "What do you know?" he asks in a low, threatening voice. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'll explain. Over a beer."

Such distrust. Such confusion, such pain. "Fine," he mutters, and turns away.

I follow.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I've seen him come and go from his temporary residence many times, but never stepped foot inside his room. I can't help but wrinkle my nose at the dank smell, and flash him a look.

"Smelled like this when I got here," he says, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over a crate.

The room is depressing. A single bulb hangs from a cord. Neon lights send crazy, psychotic designs across the concrete floor. It is cold, cheap, and totally unsuitable for this young gentleman.

He walks across the floor and bends before a small refrigerator unit. Pulls out an amber bottle, and pops off the top. Hands it to me warily. "You talk," he says. "I have to sit down."

I accept the bottle. "No more motels for you, Dean Winchester?"

He glares at me as he flops on the worn, dusty sofa. Jerks at his laces and removes his boots.

"Sam disappeared near here, didn't he?" I walk the room, feeling his eyes on me like a hot knife between my shoulder blades. It gives me a delightful chill. "You can't make yourself leave."

He's so angry. I can feel it, and I can't blame him.

I raise the bottle to my lips. "You're a better man than me. I'd of given up by now."

"It's only been a month."

"All the more reason."

My chest meets the wall, the bottle crashing to the floor, his heavy body behind me. His voice hisses in my ear as my arm twists painfully into my back. I don't remember hearing him rise. "Where is he?" Dean demands in the rough voice that I know so well, that I have heard so often during his interrogations. "God damn you,_where is he_?"

He is intoxicating. He always has been, just like his father. Like his mother, his brother. "I don't know. But I have an idea. If you'd just. . .ngh." I grunt as my arm is jacked higher behind me.

His voice is low and menacing in my ear. "You tell me now, and I might let you live."

I feel my lips curl into a semblance of humor. "What make you think I'm alive, Dean?"

I'm released with a thrust. I turn slowly, making a show of rubbing my shoulder. Dean's backing away, shaking slightly. His breath quickens, and I can see this is becoming too much for him. "You're a demon?" he asks.

"Not one to beat around the bush, are you? No. I'm not a demon. Not quite."

"Christo!"

I raise my eyebrows at him.

He is confused, angry. "What the hell are you?"

"A thing. An abomination." I feel a sudden sadness sweep over me. "A mistake."

His eyes roam my fine clothing, my body, my face. When he finally meets my eyes, I see the old Dean Winchester. "You have a lot of confidence for a freak."

"Now, Dean. I didn't say I didn't like myself." I push away from the wall with my good shoulder. "What about you?"

"What about me?" he asks, his defenses once again on the rise.

I walk right up to him. Look down at him. My eyes lock with his, and I know the colors swirling within are pinning him. "Do you like yourself?" I ask, low with seduction. I can't help it. There is so much energy there, so much angst and helplessness and strength residing in Dean Winchester. My face lowers to his, I have to be a good five inches taller than him without his boots on. I study his lips, rich and full. I find his eyes. Green and disturbed.

He steps back, breaking the spell. Shaken. "What the fuck, man?"

"I'm sorry." I am. I don't want to hurt this young treat. "I mean nothing by it. It's who I am."

"Well, it's who I'm _not_, so forget it."

He's angry. I don't blame him. "I swear to you, I have no ill intentions toward you. You...mesmerize me, and I'm not going to deny it. But I'm not going to abuse it. I have too much respect for you."

"Really? That's nice." He's sulking now, and it's adorable. I can see the drink swimming around him, trying to pull him under. He's growing more unsteady on his feet.

"Unless you want it. . ."

"NO! Now, what about my brother?"

I smile and reach to the table for his own beer, and take a long, slow sip. He watches my throat move as I swallow, shakes his head, and looks away. "Please," he says in a tired, defeated voice.

He's broken. Exhausted. Out of options. He's been searching for a month, maybe a little longer. Sam disappeared two streets down. Literally snatched from Dean's fingers as he held on to his little brother. Snatched away into red light, and thin air, leaving the nightlife blinking around Dean, ignorant of his sobs.

He's a shell. But that fire still burns brightly inside. Somewhere.

"I know who took him."

"Well?" He sits on his sofa, his white socked feet braced on the stack of milk crates that forms a haphazard table in front of him. His socks are marked from the insides of his boots, outlining the curve of his arch, smudging the bottoms of his toes.

"You know as well as I, Dean. Demons."

"How the hell do you know us?"

"I've been watching you. You know this."

He's not happy. "Demons, huh?"

"Well, something similar." No point in spouting details until I know he's going to listen.

"I think I can find him."

"And what's in it for you?" he asks.

It was a good question. A fair question. Part of the reason is simply because I first saw this young man, and loved him. I saw his brother, and loved him as well. I saw them together, and I fell into sin.

I_am_sin.

But as always, there is more than that. "I might need your help someday. You have connections."

Dean laughs. It's short, more like a bark and full of distrust, but for a moment his eyes sparkle. "What connections?"

"I'll tell you should I need them. Do you want Sam back, or not?"

"You know I do."

"Then let me help you."

He's considering. His brows raise lightly. "I must be more drunk than I thought."

I walk over to him casually, and set the beer bottle right beside his feet. "You need to rest. You haven't had a good night's sleep since Sam vanished. I'll watch over you." I raise his legs and swing him so that he's laying back on the sofa. He lets me, and seems confused by the action.

"What are you doing to me?" he asks. I know he's not referring to my action.

I bend over him, and give him a kiss on the forehead. "Go to sleep."

"God! The fuck – you kissed me!"

"You're drunk. Go to sleep." I walk to the door, secure it, and snatch his jacket from the crate, then spread it over him. "Don't even have a blanket," I criticize.

"Wasn't staying here that long," he mutters, his eyes fluttering shut.

"No one ever plans to stay long."

"I can't trust you."

"You have no choice. Now shut up before I knock the shit out of you."

His lips quirk in a smile. I sound like his brother.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I sit on the windowsill, looking out over the dingy night streets, and wait.

My existence isn't an easy one. I fill my days with the most mundane of activities, only to close my eyes, open them, and start over again. I don't remember when I first came into being; it is as though I always existed. It gives one an odd sense of time, yet I feel like that time is running out. There is something going on that I never predicted, and I find myself in the middle of it as much as these boys, these young men, that I want so desperately to save.

Oh, I have seen Sam Winchester.

He has a power and temper as graceful and slick as the rifle that bears the same name. Though his body is young, his spirit is old. He and his brother have been around as long as time itself. Legends were sung of them in the old days, lifetimes ago, yet they have no clue. This existence is punishment for them, their hell for a past discrepancy, and they have no clue as to what it was, or why they are meant to do what they do. I can't tell them. It is but a whisper of a memory with me. I'm not sure what is fact or fiction. But I know these boys. At one time, I was a mentor to the brothers. I've been aligned with their souls, traveling with them, watching them, yet distancing myself. I am not now what I was then. And for all I know, this is a story I've invented for myself, to bear the passage of time. Designing a connection within my mind.

It is well they have no memory of it. I'm not sure I have.

But I've seen young Samuel's eyes flicker. The demon that tried so hard to ruin his life, has buried his memories so far down that I doubt they will ever be retrieved. Yet it remains in his soul, in his genetic makeup. He will always be the prince, the one who is hunted, the one who is so powerful that the universe itself cringes. He too, is an abomination. And his brother will fight to protect him. This I do know.

Dean is equally powerful. Together they can rent this existence apart to its very fabric.

The demons know this. They don't know the specifics, because like me, it has been too long and the mind can play tricks. But they sense it. And they want to use it. Each one wants to tap into this power and bend it to their will. In doing so, they will destroy themselves.

So why not just let them? All in good time.

Where was I? Oh.

Samuel.

I watched him when he was small, struggling with this thing inside him. Everyone knows they are more than what they make of themselves. Everyone senses that power within them that they are convinced makes them the center of the universe, the reason for its existence. Sam struggled with that. He couldn't understand why this great, grand thing wasn't happening now. He was the most impatient child, quick to anger, quick to want his way and throw a fit when he didn't get it. And poor Dean, poor wonderful, broken Dean, had to put up with the petty whining and crying and slobbering sobs, and had given in much of the time. The adults that knew them, and few they were, thought Dean was a doting big brother. The truth was, he was merely trying to maintain his sanity.

Sam was restless. He always wanted more, wanted what he didn't have. He was envious of Dean, and at one point to near hatred of his older brother because he sensed Dean's control, a feeling that he longed to have for himself. His resentment grew alongside his love. It grew hard to distinguish his brother from his caregiver. And finally, Sam had to leave so he could sort things out in his scattered, resentful, powerful mind.

Fate, and Azazel, brought the brothers back together as equals. As they should be. As they have always been, before. . .

Damn. I have to explain the Earthbound. But not yet. Dean is stirring, the sun is rising, and this short narrative must come to a close.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Coffee is the best drug in the world. That and painkillers, and the ability to single-handedly steer a vomiting man away from you to the rancid corner that holds the temple of the Porcelain God. Dean at least has the decency to put a screen around the toilet to allow privacy, even if he lives in this rat hole alone.

"You deserve better than this, Dean Winchester," I say, bracing his shoulders.

"Go to hell," he mutters.

"You flatter me. Gah!" I step back, waving away the putrid aroma. "Just clean up, then, and get out here."

He gives me an evil look though half-seeing eyes, and vomits violently. All I can do is roll my eyes and go to sit on the long lump that thinks it's a sofa.

A short time later he emerges red-eyed, flushed, and oddly pale. It is a striking combination, one that looks impossible. "You're still here?" he croaks at me while wiping his face with a piece of material that looks like it should be a towel, or part of a rodent.

I shake my head in disgust. "We have _got_ to get you out of this dump."

"I'm fine."

"You'll die in this cesspool!"

"I'm not leaving!"

He always was an ornery cuss. "What do you hope to achieve here?"

"I'm not leaving Sammy!" The towel-thing is flung down. Dean wavers, and grabs the back of a broken metal chair to steady himself.

"You're no good to him like this."

"I know." He sounds defeated. "But I'm no good _not_like this."

It is so unlike him. It worries me, and that worry pushes me to action. I leap to my feet, spot his duffel, and start to grab his clothes that are scattered around the room.

He curses, grabs at me, and I shove him on the sofa. He starts to get up, but I stop him by planting my knee into his sternum. "You listen to me." My voice is like ice, hard and cold. "I will help you find your brother. That is a promise. No strings. But you have got to shape up, because right now you are near worthless, and your Sam will die. Do you understand me? He will die, and it will be your fault." I release him and step back, watching him.

He blinks at me for a moment, then rolls off the sofa. Clothes are thrust into the duffel by his hand, not mine.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I take him to my penthouse suite. It rises high above the city, and I can look down it's long nose at the people below with disdain, and without the fear of being seen. My furnishings are lush. Why have the goods if not to take advantage of them?

Don't get any ideas. I admit I do, especially when I see his brows raise at the sight of my king-sized satin-sheeted bed. "Well, ain't you the big shit?" he says.

"Don't forget it," I counter, and snatch his bag from him. I toss it onto a leather-strapped luggage rack, and steer him towards the pristine white kitchenette. "When's the last time you've eaten?"

"When are you going to tell me where Sam is?"

He's as impatient as his brother. It is to be expected. "When you're well enough to deal with it." I pull out a package of bagels and start a pot of coffee to brew.

I can feel him watching me again. I love it. "Who are you?" he asks.

"I told you. You can call me Zach."

"That's your name. I want to know who you are."

I turn to him. "Do you really want to know? Do you _really_want to know?"

Something in my tone stops him. My fallen angel. I want nothing more than to rub the tension from his temples.

We eat and drink in silence. The sunlight pours golden through the window and brings color to his cheeks. By the time he's showered, he looks more like the Dean I first came in contact with, once he was an adult.

Remember, I knew them as children.

"Zach," he says, and I get a thrill hearing my name escape those lips. "Look. You didn't have to do all this."

"You're welcome," I say. I sigh and lean against the counter where I've just finished cleaning the dishes. My appearance is very important to me, and that includes my surroundings. "Do you feel better?"

"Don't know about better. I feel more like myself."

"I'll take that. Sit." I pour him another cup of coffee. "Now. Since you seem to have again grasped the concept of what it means to be human. . .what would you say if I told you we could have your brother back tonight?"

He nearly drops his coffee. "Tonight?"

"Yes." I calmly sit across from him.

"How? Where the hell is he?" He's nearly frantic.

I raise my hand to settle him, then peer into my mug. "Underground. He's a prisoner."

Dean's eyes narrow, slits of violent green ready to erupt. "You know where he is? Right now? How long have you known?" He watches me. I say nothing. I don't want to lose that vibrant attention he's flung at me. It's selfish, I know.

He stands. "How long?" he demands.

"For a while."

"And you're just now telling me?" His fists are clenched, and I'm waiting for the blow.

"I don't want him harmed, Dean."

"He's a fucking prisoner! You've let him be a prisoner! How could you do that to us?"

He's talking with familiarity, and doesn't even realize it. I don't call him on it. "Because for a while I thought I could have you."

"_What_?" Dean sits heavily, blinking in disbelief. "What the fuck are you saying?"

"I'm jealous of your brother, Dean. Of this bond. I always have been. I will never have one." At least, not again.

He's taken aback, almost disgusted, and yet there is an aura of pleasure around him. "It's a liability."

"And you love it."

"Can we go now?"

He sounds so lost. Physically, he is better. Inside, he is still broken. He isn't ready. I have to get him angry. I have to bring Dean back.

"We'll go. On one condition."

"What?"

I raise a brow. "You sleep with me."

He freezes. " – the HELL?"

"In that bed. You let me look at you, take you in. I promise not to touch you. I just want to be near you, just for a time. This isn't sex, Dean. This is much deeper."

"You're fucking nuts!" He's standing now, and I stand too. I launch myself around the table before he can blink, grab his wrists, fling him hard back against the wall, hearing his breath gasp out in shock. Press his wrists against it beside his head. Press my chest against his. Feel his heart race against mine.

Only mine no longer beats.

He's struggling hard, trying to squirm away. It isn't possible to feel this aroused, yet I do. Maybe it's a memory, like everything else, tangible only because you know how it used to feel. Sometimes I think my heart tries to beat in an unnatural rhythm, remembering the sensation.

I hold him, pin him, keep him from escaping. Making him mine, even though there is no way I can make him mine. It's an illusion, like everything else. I release his wrists and grab his head, forcing him to lock gazes with me. His hand pry at mine, and I lower my face to his as though to kiss him, and see the repulsion flame in his face. Pure fury. That's more like it.

"I need you, Dean Winchester," I say, "and you need me." And I let him go. Take a few steps back. He's slumped, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort of controlled breath.

"I hate you," he says.

"Good," I say. "You'll need an extra pair of pants, and a shirt. Let's go."

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The lair is deep beneath the street. I grunt at the unexpected weight of the manhole's lid, and shove it aside. Dean turns on his flashlight and instantly starts down, his anxiety overriding his sense of caution. His dexterity amazes me. He's like a spider monkey, able to climb and descend with rapid ease. But his mind is even more complex than his body, and I long to probe it.

We splash down in the muck, our lights swinging from one side of the yawning New York cavern to the other. "This way," I say. "Stay close. There's a few tricky spots here our lovely local government workers know nothing about."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Dean mutters, and I smile.

We wade through the muck and grime that only a race as sophisticated as human beings can create. It amazes me how much humans love to live in muck. The toss it down to build entire cities upon. They use it to govern themselves. They fill their minds with it, they eat it, they breathe it, and then they insist that they are 'going green'. The only thing I have ever seen 'go green' is a storm-filled sky right before disaster hits. This entire world is one storm waiting to devour itself.

Dean rushes ahead in anticipation, and I let him, giving him a gentle nudge to the left or right as direction dictates. I can feel his adrenaline flow, sense his inner turmoil, hear his heart racing. There is no way to calm him, and I'm not even going to try. He will need this, every bit of this, to brace himself for what he is going to see.

"So, Zach," he says conversationally, and my ears perk, "you live here long?"

He's covering his fear. I respond in kind. "I've lived in many places. But I've been the longest here. There is something about New York that suits me."

"I'm more of a Midwest man myself," he says. "Too much noise here. Lights."

"But you're the partying type, right? I would have thought this city to be right up your alley."

"Great place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live here," he says, and I laugh, because he's sounding more and more like himself, and I'm glad.

"You think a month is overstaying your welcome."

"Damn straight."

I nudge him down another passageway.

The air around us is stifling. Dean coughs into the sleeve of his jacket, and I can feel my own nose tingle with irritation. We continue to descend. Our lights barely cut through the darkness. The watery muck has turned into sludge, and Dean slips repeatedly. I steady him. At first he's irate, then he accepts the help. "You're not gonna jump me down here, are you?" he asks.

"I'll try to restrain myself," I say lightly.

"Cause I know mud-wrestling looks cool with the chicks, but. . ."

"This stuff stinks, Dean."

"Good. My point."

So he thinks. But I know better. I know how I can affect people. I am virtually sexless. I can seduce anything.

"It's those damn eyes," he says, pressing on. "You've got the freakiest damned eyes I've ever seen." Reasoning with himself. It surprises me, because he's openly acknowledging the effect I have on him. Saying, _Hey bud, I know what you're doing. Back off._

We walk for another hour without talking. The muck sucks at our shoes, pulling each step like taffy. By the time of the third hour, Dean is losing strength. Frustration is mounting. I grab his shoulder firmly to keep him from face-planting into the grime. "We're here." My voice is low, and cautious, and he picks up on that.

He turns off his light, relying only on mine. I pass to the front of him. His weapon is out and ready, his eyes are hard, his body tense, and I'm trying not to think too much.

We round a corner, and I see a sight that takes even my breath away. Figuratively. "There." I shine my light, and quickly step aside because I know what's coming. And it will tear at my heart.

Dean looks around me, cries out, "Sam!" and runs to his brother. He's relying on me to guard him against any threat. At the moment, there is none.

Sam Winchester is tied down and unclothed. His body is wracked with shivers and pain. His glassy eyes turn to Dean and reflect my light. His hair is matted with blood, he is covered with grime and sewage and feces. Cuts no longer bleed, but ooze with infection. His arms are outstretched and bound to either side of him. His legs are spread and bound at the ankles. He is even bound by his neck, preventing him from raising his head to see the torture, relying on the sensation of pain alone. I can hear his breath catch, and see his ribs trying to poke through skin that is too thin.

"Sam! Oh, Jesus Christ, Sam. . ." Dean's hands are everywhere, gliding over the filth, the ropes, and finally settle to the sides of Sam's head, where he slowly guides his brother back. "Son of a bitch! Sam. Look at me. You're okay, I'm gonna get you outta here. You're safe. You're safe now." His voice is firm yet gentle, and it tears me apart. Sam looks at him as he talks, shakes his head, turns away. But Dean forces him back, keeps talking, telling him that he's real, that Sam isn't dreaming, and I wonder how much the bastards have fed him during his month's stay in hell.

I join them, and gently put my hand on Sam's head, noticing the sharp glance that Dean gives me. "Sorry to ruin your moment," I say nastily, and concentrate on Sam. I close my eyes, see him in my mind, and breathe deeply.

He comes to clarity with a gasp, and I open my eyes.

Dean instantly tries to still him, grabbing his face again, meeting his eyes. And this time Sam responds. "Dean? S'really you?" His eyes still won't open completely, and his voice is barely there.

Dean smiles with more relief than I've ever seen from him. "It's me, Sammy."

His head lolls with weakness. "Didn't leave. S'd you'd left."

"I didn't leave, Sam." Dean goes to work on the ropes. "You think you can stand?"

"Dunno." He is confused, malnourished, dehydrated. Injured. Toxic. He makes a visibly effort to focus.

"We're gonna get you to a hospital, okay? A nice warm bed and lots of happy juice. Just stay with me." One wrist is cut loose, and he goes to work on the right ankle, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

It is obvious why. There is no question Sam has lain naked on that platform since his capture. They've given him some water, apparently, seeing as how he's still alive, but food is questionable. Earlier waste has vacated onto the table. It's been toyed with, and covers his legs and abdomen. It doesn't surprise me, but Dean is horrified. "Keep going," I say, and he nods and continues to saw at the rope. I wiggle my fingers at him for the knife, and tell him to get the spare clothes.

"You knew," he accuses me, snatching up the canvas bag. "You knew about all of this."

"I surmised. I've seen it before."

"Who was it?"

I hesitate from sawing long enough to look at him. "Me."

He says nothing, but hesitates before jerking the clothes out of his bag.

Sam is gently rolled off the table, and instantly collapses. He smells appalling. Dean doesn't care, and I take his lead, fighting to dress the half-dead boy. "I'll carry him," I offer. There is no argument so I scoop him into my arms, like I had done when he was a child.

His guardian angel. Or his bane of existence, depending on how one looks at it.

Dean lets me take his brother. He leads the way out, on his guard as usual, swinging his light back and forth, his gun aimed and ready, listening to my directions as I lead us out of the sewage.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sam is in the hospital for three weeks. Sepsis, malnutrition, physical abuse, the poor kid has it all. During this time Dean roams the halls in a rage that borders on insanity, and there is little I can do to calm him. I finally stop trying.

"Tell me," he says that first night, "tell me he wasn't down there in that goddamned cesspool for a whole month. Tell me he was somewhere else." He grabs my shirt. "Tell me!"

I just shrug. It is all I can do, and he leaves me alone for the rest of the night.

The following day brings more questions. "How can they do this to him? I thought they want him to lead their pathetic army, why would they go all Hannibal on him?"

I turn the paper coffee cup in my hands, trying to ignore the overpowering medicinal smell of the building. Oversensitive as always, as though making up for the lack of sensation. A paradox, like me. "To see what kind of leader he'd make. To see how strong he is. It isn't unheard of." It is the best answer I'm willing to give him right now. And it's all lies, but I think that's what he wants to hear.

"This is nuts."

"This is war." I look up at him.

Dean slams his fist down on the table in front of me. His jaw is tight. "For the last time. Who. Are. You?"

I smile. "Hopefully, someone who's time has come," I say sadly.

He pushes back, angry. "You won't give me a straight answer about anything, will you?"

"See to your brother. He should be your concern right now."

"He's always my concern," Dean snaps. He rises with his cup, and leaves.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I watch them. I can't touch them. I gave Dean my name, and it was enough. I once inhabited a body that they knew, and abhorred, and they killed me. I came back, stronger, because I am an abomination, as I have said. Strong, but lacking the will to fight. And I do not want to fight the Winchesters. The truth is, I wish to fight along side them. I had originally set that plan into motion, but a single bullet stopped it, and made me realize that maybe my original plan wasn't the best one, after all. Quite humbling, actually.

I look out over New York City from my penthouse, knowing they are gone, that Dean has taken his brother into hiding, to heal. But I can hear him. I can hear Sam. I know what they are up against, and I had tried to prepare them. I had a plan.

I still have one, only it has changed to meet the circumstances.

I hear a step behind me. It is my old friend, the one who rescued me from the pit so long ago, much the way that Dean had rescued his beloved brother. He is my best friend, my brother, my soul. "Thomas," I say in greeting without turning. "Why are you here? You never come here."

There is a peculiar metallic scent to him. I can feel him at my shoulder, feel his concern overriding his confidence. He is worried. He should be. "They're ready for you."

"I'm not going."

Thomas balks behind me. I can feel his confusion. "But the meeting. . . you have to attend. You own this company, or have you forgotten?"

"What loss would there be in not attending? I have other matters."

"You'll blow your cover. Is that not enough for you?"

"Tell them I am ill."

"That won't work."

"What are they going to do? Fire me?"

"Listen to me. . ."

"No, Thomas, you listen to me." I face him fully. "The time's come. Something is happening, and I'll be damned if I'm going leave it to go to a room full of people and talk percentages."

"You've just acquired this firm. You have to maintain your cover!"

"One would think you wanted me in a cell!" I yell at him. "Why are you doing this? Why do you condemn me to that place when _they_ are out?"

"_They_ have nothing to do with you!"

"They have everything to do with me, and you know this! Dammit, Thomas, you were the one that pulled me out of that pit!"

"The Earthbound are nothing."

"You're wrong. They are everything." I look down on the city. "They will win this war."

"Azazel. . ."

I shake my head. "Stop it! I've told you. My name is Zach." I turn back to him, and my eyes flash gold.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I see them a month later. It is purely unintentional, though I am pleased, and relieved. I am seeing a client, did I mention I'm in advertising? It's a nice cover. Easy way to afford the penthouse, and allows for a bit of extravagance and travel. I can disappear for a week and no one asks questions. Well, to tell the truth, it caused a small bit of chaos when I died, because I came back so much younger. I simply told them I was a nephew, showed the paperwork I'd written for myself, said I was taking over the company, and after the appropriate tears were shed no further questions were asked. The few questions that tried to air were shut down at the photos I provided of the burial of my former dead host.

This makes me sound like a parasite. I am not.

What my death did allow me, oddly enough, was a freedom beyond anything I thought I could imagine. Freedom from heaven, and from hell. From the demon's hold, for as I've said, I am an abomination. I was shot through with that silver bullet, and with it, I was brought back to life.

Okay, a dead-life, but a life just the same. Or maybe more an occupation of space and time.

It is possible for a demon to not only possess a body, but a soul. I am Zachariah. I always have been, deep down, before Azazel got hold of me. Before the pit.

But for now the Winchester brothers are before me, and they are all I can concentrate on, larger than life, outlined for my eyes only, and I dare another being to look in their direction. Dean is bent over a recovered Sam's shoulder, peering at something on the laptop with a frown darkening his handsome face. Sam is talking, and I while I can strain to hear him, I chose not to. Instead I simply consider the encounter fortuitous, and bide my time.

Sam is looking well. There are no scars that I can see, no new ones, anyway. Dean is always the one who comes out the worse for wear. His body is a veritable roadmap of misadventures. I've seen them as he's slept. But Sam's scars are on the inside. I know first hand what the Earthbound can do, and I am glad to see he is up and around. It was no small struggle, of that I am certain. And it is just as well that I've found these brothers now. I was on the verge of seeking them out, and here they find me.

Dean straightens with a nod and points to something on the screen. His arm settles on Sam's shoulder, the hand sliding back to give him a quick squeeze before he crosses over to settle in his seat. Sam visibly relaxes, and I realize what a rock Dean is to get Sam through his ordeal. That I must discuss with him.

But later. Curiosity is a weakness of mine, and I want to hear what they are saying. I finally rise and close in on them, making an effort not to be seen, to blend in. Even with my height and looks, it is all too easy. I land at the table just behind them.

"So we're going to Lincoln," Sam says. He rubs his forefinger and thumb together like he's rolling something between them. It is a nervous habit of his.

"Looks like. Man, what I wouldn't give for a sandwich right now." The café has free wireless internet. Two glasses of water sit before them. There is no food.

"Not my fault you ran out of money." It is apparent that, despite the earlier connection, this is not a good day for the Winchester boys.

"Hey, I was laid up taking care of your sick ass! Not like I had a chance to get out there and hustle, so cut me some slack!"

"Dean, I told you, I'm fine. You're the one that's hovering."

"With good reason, Sybil! No one ever tell you just one personality is supposed to be in that thick skull of yours?"

Sam squints at him dubiously. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Dean leans forward, his voice lowering. "I'm talking about your angular mood swings, Mr. PMS of the Universe. I'm talking about the fact that you just started talking to me last week after a century of silent treatment. Oh, and what about those times you attacked me? Three times, Sam, and once when I was trying to take a dump. Still have no idea what you were on to there. You still won't talk about what's going on in that maladjusted head of yours and you're trying to act like nothing happened, so yeah, I hover! Excuse me for trying to show a little brotherly concern!"

"Dean, I appreciate it, really, but you need to just back off, okay?"

Dean stands. "Fine. You know what? The next time you're covered with shit, you're on your own!" People are looking at him uncomfortably.

I expect Sam to apologize. Or for Dean to. Instead Dean mutters something about going for a walk, and leaves poor Sammy staring at his laptop, fuming.

Okay, so, not a coincidence. We are meant to reunite at this juncture.

I rise, and walk behind Sam. I feel a cool countenance that is traumatized by events. He is ice to Dean's fire, the calm reason behind a hot head. His anger is cold, calculated, more rational than Dean's emotional outbursts. So yin and yang – I reach out and put my hand on Sam's shoulder, walking around him slowly to take Dean's seat. He frowns at me, uncomfortable with the touch, ready to tell me where to get off. He sees my eyes, and stops. I let him have the pleasure of looking me over, and a flash of recognition crosses over him. "You were there," he says quietly.

"I was."

"You were standing beside Dean. You carried me out."

"You have a good memory. May I?" I gesture at the unused menu, and open it. "I hear they make a good chicken salad here. You're looking peaked, maybe you should eat."

"I'm fine." It is the standard answer of a Winchester, and it makes me cluck my tongue and shake my head.

"Shame to miss out on such a fine dish. I don't suppose you mind if I order one for myself? I'm famished." Sam says nothing, and I flag down a waiter and order a large meal. Sam is looking increasingly uncomfortable, and fidgets with the corner of his laptop. He looks at me through narrowed eyes, studying my features, my clothing, my aura. He can see auras, only he doesn't recognize them as such. I know this, because ages ago, I taught him how to do it. It was a game, merely picking out and identifying the colors. He excelled. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"I'm good." He nods at his half-finished water.

"Nothing stronger?"

"No, thank you. Why are you here?"

To the point. Another family trait. "You need me."

"For what?"

"You have to ask me that? I rescued you."

"I don't even know you."

"But I know you, Sam. And I know what you've been through, because I went through the same thing myself. Dean can't understand. He can listen, but he can't feel it. I can."

My admission catches him off guard. "What makes you think I want to talk about it?" he asks as a cover.

"Because, again, I know you. You've never been good at keeping your thoughts and feelings to yourself. You believe in being open with people."

"You obviously don't know me as well as you think." He gave a small smirk, one so much like Dean that I wonder just how much the two influence each other. "In fact, I'm pretty sure you don't know me at all."

I smile at him. "You have changed. That is a fact."

He winces in confusion, and says nothing.

I lean forward on the table, threading my fingers together. "The truth is, Sam Winchester, I need your help. I figure if I can help you through your pain, you can help me through mine."

He's suspicious, but I have his attention. "What pain?"

"Ah, now, I can't get into that just yet. You are the primary injured party here. We must heal you, before you can heal me."

"You're not making any sense."

"I'm making perfect sense. You're just afraid."

"I'm not." He almost laughs, but his voice is small, threatened. And yet, defiant.

"Sam. You're a shell of your former self. Dean can look after you physically, but what can he do for you, really? Let me help you."

"With what?"

I fix him with my eyes. "Help you to remember. You know as well as I do that the reason you can't talk to Dean about this is because there is literally nothing to talk about."

Sam tenses. He sits back, closing the lid to his laptop, though his eyes never leave it. "I remember hearing Dean call my name," he says after a heavy moment. "I remember the smell. I was terrified. I thought I was going to die, or had already died and gone to hell. I remember you, your eyes, you picking me up and how much that hurt. But how I got there, any of that — I'm drawing a blank." He looks up.

"I can help you. I've been there myself."

"You went through this. And you can remember exactly what happened?"

"With help, yes. I was able to recall."

His attention was on his hands. "Yeah, well, what if I don't want to?"

I consider playing the whole "mysterious stranger with a cryptic answer about how your soul will never be the same" card, but instead I spot the waiter coming with a tray of food. "Ah." I smile up at him as he sets two plates before me. "Thank you." I pass a glass of tea to Sam. "Tea has healing properties. Drink up. You really do look awful. Maybe Dean isn't taking care of you after all."

He bristles. "Dean is looking out for me just fine."

"I can see that." My response leaves a question in the air.

Sam is getting more angry, and annoyed. "Listen to me," he says, "I don't know who you are, and I really don't care. But you seem to know more about me and my brother than a stranger should, so I suggest you stop tailing us and leave us alone. Or you might see something you'll wish you hadn't."

I casually pick up a single french fry and set it in my mouth. "You assume a lot, young man." I chew for a moment, then rise. "It's your decision. I'll give you a day. After that, you're on your own."

"It was good to meet you." It leaves no room for a future.

"And you, again, Sam." I take a bow, grandly, and see a young woman smile at me. She's sitting by herself, and has been watching me for a while.

I leave the food, and walk over to her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Along with the food, which I had obviously ordered with no intention of eating, I left a contact number.

And so I lay in post-orgasmic bliss, the woman from the sidewalk café snuggling underneath my arm. She smells of peaches and heat. Her hair is long and feels like feathers fanned out over my chest. She moves, ever so slightly, dragging that mane across the hair on my arm, and I shiver.

It is all a memory, of course. But the mind is a highly evolved piece of art. I can remember much.

It torments me.

Her bare toes curl into my leg, and she stretches like a cat, slowly opening her eyes to smile at me. I smile back, but my heart is elsewhere.

I'm surprised to realize that the phone is ringing, and wonder how long it has been doing so.

I roll out of bed, not bothering to cover my nakedness, and walk to the small table where my jacket lies over the back of a chair. I reach into the interior pocket and pull my cell phone, glance at the number, and answer. "Hello?"

I know who it is. I am surprised they've called this soon.

"Zach." Dean's voice is concerned. "Did you talk to my brother?"

"How else did you get this number?"

"You need to get over here. Something's wrong." He sounds very upset, practically yelling into the phone without raising his voice, such is the intensity of his words.

"Wrong?" I wait. I have to be certain.

"With Sam! Something's wrong with Sam. What'd you do to him?"

The corners of my mouth twitch in anxiety. "Ah. Yes, I should come. Keep him calm."

"What the _fuck_did you do to him?"

"He's remembering. Where are you?" I quickly jot down the address of a seedy hotel, it had to be seedy if they were staying in it, and clicked the phone shut. I looked back at my lovely, who was laying on her side watching me, her fingers playing along the blanket, her expression coy. I groan inwardly, and stretch my arms in apology. "Sorry, love. Must dash."

"So soon?" It's like a staged scene. She drags her forefinger across the white sheet, and I'm reminded of all the movies I've seen where the guy leaves the girl to return to work, and never sees her again.

I pull out my wallet and lay a twenty dollar bill on the bed. "Get a cab, dear. I know where to find you."

"You think twenty is all I'm worth?" She's sitting up, looking annoyed. Her breasts aren't as perky as last night's drink had made them appear. Her frown is growing, and though I know it's all my fault, she suddenly annoys me.

"That, or you can walk, love," I say. "It's all the same to me, except that I'll be out of a twenty."

She glares with the righteousness of a misused dame, and snatches the money. "I'll need another two hundred," she says, and her brows raised pointedly.

I chuckle and walk to her. I lean over her slowly, study her lips, then kiss them hard. She gasps quickly beneath it. I pull away. "Keep the change," I say in a low voice.

I take my jacket, and walk out, her yells muffled by the door behind me.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks so much for the reviews and emails! I hope the story continues to entertain. - Kam

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I arrive at the motel. Dean answers my knock at the door, and steps aside for me to enter. He's wary, pissed, and dangerous. Before I can say anything there is a fist wound into the front of my shirt, and I'm pushed back against the door, effectively slamming it shut. "I'm going to ask you one more time," he growls. "What the hell did you do to him?"

"Actually, I believe last time you asked what the _fuck_did I do to him, but that's just me being picky." My voice is calm, but I mean business as I yank his fist away and hold it firmly. "Where is he?"

He's breathing heavily, staring at me. He's wearing an old t-shirt, pulled out over his jeans. His hair is disheveled. He hasn't tried to wrench away from my grip. "In the bathroom."

"What's he doing?"

"Sure as hell not taking a piss!"

"Dean." I press forward. "I need to know exactly what's happened before I go in there."

I'm beginning to wonder if there is a time when Dean isn't pissed off at something. He's trying to control his breathing. It comes out in pained huffs, and I know this is tearing him apart. I release him and raise my hands to comfort him. "I'm here to help. I promise. You have to trust me."

"I have to know who you are, first."

The subtle recognition is driving him crazy. Part of him knows, the rest is in denial, and I'm not going to help him with his inner battle. "No. First, we have to deal with Sam. Now talk to me."

Dean relents. "He said he talked to you. Said he remembered you being there, when we rescued him, and I. . ." he pauses and rubs the back of his neck, "I might have – tried to get him to remember more."

I groan loudly and roll my eyes. "Utterly amazing! You Winchesters are such selfish assholes!"

"What the hell? I need to know what happened to him!"

"And you didn't think stop to think about what it might do to him? Dean, his memory lapsed for a reason!"

"I can't help him if he won't talk to me!" Dean sounds desperate, more like his brother than himself. "He's freaked, man! He walks around like he's playing Casper. I mean, he bumps into things like he's trying to walk through it because he's concentrating on this deranged film running in his head. He needs to talk about it."

"Because you need to know what happened," I snap.

"What's wrong with that? He's an annoying pain in my ass, but he's my brother and I have a responsibility. Don't you get that?"

I totally get it. "Responsibility. Nothing to do with love, then."

"Are you going to break into song or something?"

"So he's started to remember what happened to him."

A hesitation. "Yeah. It's like some psycho flashback or something. He told me a little, then he started describing things in detail like he was still there, then he _really_thought he was there. Started going nuts. I tried to grab him, and I tell you, he's learned something somewhere because next thing I know I'm on my ass praising the ceiling and he's jailed himself. I've banged, yelled, did everything but bust the door off the hinges."

"That might scare him."

Dean glares at me. "Ya think?"

I nod stoically and walk to the door. It's scarred, not heavy, but a definite barrier. I rap on it gently. "Sam? It's Zach. We met earlier, remember? In the café. Your brother called me. We have to talk." There's a noise inside, like a shuffle, and a light ping as something drops. Dean's pressing his ear to the door to listen, his jaw jutting as he grinds his teeth. "Sam, I can help you. Dean's out here with me right now. You have to trust me, or you'll die in there. You understand? These memories will kill you by driving you mad." I pause. "Do you hear me, Sam? Do you want help, or would you rather die and leave your brother alone? I think you know what result that would bring." It is a vile card, but worth playing. I ignore Dean's poisoning look.

"Just what's the hell's that supposed to do?" he bites in a low voice.

"It supposed to get through to Sam," I reply in an equally low voice. "Because right now, he's not Sam."

"_Now_what are you talking about?"

"You know perfectly well. He's lost in his mind. He's not Sam."

Dean considers. "So if he's lost in his mind, then he's not possessed."

"Is everything so black and white with you?" I knock again. "Sam, please let me in. It's important. Look around you. You're in a motel bathroom. I'm out here, Dean's out here." I tap Dean's arm and cock my head towards the door.

Dean exhales sharply and leans his head against the door, turning from me slightly like he wants more privacy. "Sammy, come on, man, open up. Don't be a pansy. You've gotta face this." He looks at my disapproval. "What?"

"Your people skills are seriously lacking," I respond, and the door clicks open.

Sam looks like shit. Complete shit, like the excrement that had covered his legs when we rescued him. But he smells clean, not sick, best I can tell. His eyes are reddened, wild, scared, yet he's in there. He just doesn't understand. He hovers, looking at us.

"Sam," Dean breathes, and Sam looks at him, still confused.

I back away and extend my hand towards him. "I can make coffee. Would you like some?" There is a nod, and a cautious glance toward Dean, whose eyes are glued to him. I see Dean's fist clench, like he wants to reach out to Sam, but is afraid to.

I head to the kitchenette and let Dean guide Sam to the side of the bed. He sits across from him on the other twin bed, talking in soothing, hushed tones, and Sam is responding. By the time the coffee is brewed and the mugs are poured, Sam looks more like himself. He accepts the mug gratefully, as does Dean, though he doesn't sip from it. He just leans to set it on the small table between the beds, and watches his brother.

"Now," I say. I've pulled a small chair to them. I sit and lean forward. "I know this is the last thing you want to do, but you must. You have to tell me everything. I have to know what's going on inside your head." Sam says nothing, and I motion for Dean to rise. He does so, and we switch places, so that I'm sitting on the bed directly in front of Sam.

"Sam, look at me." He does, barely raising his head to peer from beneath a chestnut fringe of hair. His eyes are squinted in confusion and distrust. I see him glance at Dean, visibly asking for strength. Dean watches, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees, his hands clasped. "Do you trust me?" I ask him.

"I don't know you," Sam says in a small voice. I hear Dean exhale his concern slowly.

"No. But you will. If it helps, I know you. I know your brother. I knew your family. I can help, I am the only one who can help. Will you allow it?" He winces, then squints his eyes tight shut against the image in his mind.

"Sam?" Dean sounds nervous.

"I'm okay." Sam's eyes reopen, and he looks at me. Such a soulful, sorrowful gaze. "What do I do?"

"Just talk. It'll come to you."

"I really don't remember much."

"Okay. Dean, you start. What were the two of you doing when he was taken?"

Dean looks at me closely. "How did you know we were together?"

"When are you not? Talk to him."

He sniffs loudly, showing his displeasure, and leans towards his brother. "Well, uh — it was night. We went to that little shithole of a bar on the corner. Just finished a job, and you were upset because, I mean you – you know? Never mind. We went in and played some pool, then played darts. Man, you were throwing those darts like the board was screamin' at you or something. Wouldn't talk to anyone, and there was this hot chick giving you the eye but you didn't care. Gah, she was _built_too, I couldn't believe that. . ." I give Dean a look, "anyway, we stayed there for a few hours, then walked out."

"We went down the alley," Sam says.

"That's right."

"She had blond hair."

Dean smiles. "Yeah. You seem to go for the blondes."

Sam meets his gaze. "Then what?"

Dean threads his fingers together, worries at them. "So, we walked down the alley. Didn't say much. We weren't drunk, but we were pretty damned relaxed, you know what I mean? I heard this noise and looked up, and you stopped, and there was a loud shriek." He swallows, and rubs a hand over his face, no longer looking at Sam, but at the hands he again clasped together. The thumbs rubbing, rubbing. "And, uh — these things came out of nowhere. They were crawling on the ground and down the buildings. Dark shadows. I don't even know what they were, like something from Hitchcock. It – they – grabbed you. You yelled, and I yelled, and I grabbed at you, I got your hand, but they pulled you away." His voice is shaky. "You just vanished, Sam. I mean literally one minute you're there, and the next. . ." He looks up at the nearest corner of the ceiling. He doesn't want Sam to see him affected.

"I remember you yelled my name." Sam's eyes are fixed at a point on the floor. He hasn't noticed Dean's discomfort. He shifts uneasily, tightly. "I felt like everything was tearing apart inside me. They held my arms, I couldn't move, I couldn't see anything. Then I felt like I was being sucked down through rock, or concrete. It scraped against my skin and it burned so much, then scraped against my ribs and I couldn't breathe." He can breathe now, and his chest flexes with the effort. "I tried to scream out, but I couldn't make a sound." He rubs at his eyes, then just holds his head in his hands.

"What else, Sam?" I ask.

"I don't— I was tied down. I mean I woke up that way. My clothes were gone. I was freezing. I tried to twist my wrists away, tried to get up. I couldn't move my feet. That thing was so cold."

"What thing?"

"That – that thing. It touched me. It had eyes like stone. But they glowed, just a little." He hesitates, and I can see the battle going on through his expression as the memories start to surface. He doesn't want to talk about it, but things rarely ever go as planned.

"There were so many eyes, thousands of eyes. They touched me all over, everywhere just touching me like cold slime, leaving marks, dripping on my face and in my nose and mouth — I couldn't move, I couldn't see, and their breath was in my face and it was rotten, and they touched me and dripped for days, for years." His breath is quickening as he lapses into his nightmare.

"Not years, Sam." I soothe. Dean's face is slowly turning white.

Sam hasn't noticed anything. His fingers curl as he speaks. His eyes are far away. "Sometimes I felt something on my lips, like water. I think it was water, and I'd drink because I was so thirsty, and then it would burn and hurt my stomach, but I couldn't bend over. And I'd crap all over the place, and stink, god it all stinks and they like it. They just let me stink, and they'd lean over me and touch me." His voice is catching, his eyes unseeing. Dean's eyes are tearing, and he forces it back.

"They don't talk. They just smack, and grunt, and touch. Cold and greasy, just grunting, all the time grunting over me. That was all, forever. It was forever."

I nod. I recall all too well the touch of the Earthbound.

"I kept thinking I felt something on me," Sam continues slowly. His voice is low. "My nose would tickle. My arms, my legs, my. . ." here he stops for a moment as embarrassment takes over. "Crawling," he continues, choked. "I felt things crawling on me, and I couldn't move to get them off."

Dean's response is small, and tragic. "Son of a bitch." He hadn't noticed at the time, but I had. The small insects, the maggots, that were attracted to the feces that covered him.

"And they would just come back and drip on me and grunt, and give me that stuff." Sam's breathing is forced. "I was there forever. I couldn't move, god, I just couldn't move, I – I couldn't. . ."

"Sam. SAM!" Dean lunges for his brother as Sam pushes up violently. He tries to grab him, but Sam catches his arms and shoves him back.

I stand and catch Dean from his stumble. "Stop. Let him remember."

"It's that flashback thing again." His voice raises.

"I know."

I hold on to Dean firmly as we watch Sam's head jerk left and right, trying to see invisible attackers. His fists clench, then open, as they must've done during his captivity when he so desperately wanted to push the Earthbound away from him, when he wanted to wipe away the creatures that fed on his waste. To go through that every day for a month was hell in itself. But he was strong. He came back as Sam.

I wasn't so lucky.

It isn't until Sam discovers that he can move and darts for the kitchenette that I release Dean. He follows Sam to the sink. Sam twists on the faucet and plunges his arms underneath the tap, scrubbing furiously, at first blinking back his tears then giving up and letting them fall freely. He scrubs desperately, his breath hitching, sobs wracking his body. He pushes away from the sink, eyes on the streaming water.

Dean is right beside him, one hand out, ready to touch him. Ready to brace him. To bring him back.

Sam turns on his heel and heads back to the bed, but not with the intention of laying down. His hand darts underneath the pillow, and he pulls out a large knife, with the intention of killing the invisible insects that are trying to burrow into him. I stay back, though I want to grab the blade.

"Sam, no!" Dean has his wrist, and is prying away the knife, but it isn't enough.

Sam swings him around, slamming him back over the bedside table and against the wall, trying to force him to loosen his grip. But Dean fights back, and with a growl he pushes Sam away from him. Sam's facing him with the knife, placing his anger on Dean, searching for a revenge that won't come. Not yet.

Time to intervene. "Sam." I step forward. "You're safe. Put the knife down."

He's blinking rapidly.

"I promise you. You're okay."

"I'm not," he says with a sob.

"Why not? Sam, what's wrong?" Dean is asking the question, his hands out.

Sam's face works, and breaks. The knife falls to the floor. Dean darts forward and catches Sam as his knees buckle. He gives me a questioning look. I suddenly feel ill.

"Because — I found this a little while ago," Sam says, suddenly coming to himself as the nightmare of sensations loosens hold on his mind. He pulls up his shirt sleeve, and reveals a red mark on his upper arm. An oblong shape with a line through it, nothing artistic by any means. It is lightly scratched in, not permanent, but there all the same.

My eyes narrow. This is unexpected. "They've been here. They've claimed you." I can hear the disbelief in my own voice.

Dean looks at me. "How the hell? Claimed him, what's that mean?"

I raise my brows and sigh. "It means this isn't over." Not by a long shot.

And here I thought we were doing so well.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

My own time with the Earthbound wasn't so pleasant.

I was tied. I was covered with waste, only it wasn't mine. I stayed there until I reached the brink of madness. I talked with the soul of the earth. I babbled, I raged, I screamed in terror. And they dripped and coughed and grunted and whined every time they saw me. I had no defense against them. It was my punishment. I can't even remember how I ended up down there. I do have a vague memory of someone leaning over me. I remember a voice, but I can't be sure of the owner. For all I know, it was Lucifer.

The Earthbound are not dead. They were never alive. They are like me, shadows of memories. Only their memories are those that people are afraid to take with them when they die. They are the regrets that keep the walking souls among us. They are not ghouls, or ghosts. They do not haunt in the hopes of moving on, or sticking around. The Earthbound are meaningless, the one thing that all beings fear. They serve no purpose. And since they have no purpose, they have no agenda, no sense of anything, just to exist in eternal limbo. They were born mad. The acts they inflict upon the innocent is proof of their insanity. They simply need something to do. They have that much conscience, anyway.

Even demons fear them. There is no escape for any being, and for an immortal the punishment is unspeakable. To lay there for a hundred years, or a thousand, completely restrained, to be closely examined yet barely touched except with slimy drips, to starve and wish for your life back, to know this is your doom and yet you aren't lucky enough to die. . .that is Hell. That is my punishment should I ever go back to Hell. Sam tasted but a fraction of my eternal torment.

But like Sam, I was rescued. And nursed back to health, though it took much, much longer.

The Earthbound are not evil. They are merely looking for something to do. It doesn't matter what it is, because once they find it, they won't know what to do with it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It takes time for Sam to recover from his ordeal, not that his recovery will ever be complete. But these boys have seen and suffered so much, I know his recovery will be more successful than most. I stay with them, not necessarily an invited guest, but more that I simply make myself at home, and Dean doesn't question me.

Sam is asleep, looking like a child in an oversized frame. His memories haunt him, as do mine. Once he knocked Dean unconscious in his fright, which seemed to bring him back to us in spades as he suddenly leaned over his brother's limp form, shock coloring his face. Dean came to moments later, complaining that if that was all Sam had, it was no wonder Dean was always saving his ass. I had to smile, and earned a glare from both brothers who, you may note, had yet to kick me out.

But for now, he sleeps. Dean sits on his bed, staring at an infomercial on the television, making crass comments almost as though I'm willing to listen to him. I would much rather watch him, so I do, and he pretends not to notice.

It is hard.

I make use of their laptop. Look for signs that the Earthbound have taken souls, that they have reaped havoc on an unsuspecting city. Of course, the Earthbound have been doing this for thousands of years. I merely search for amusement, and because while Dean is lovely to look at, his conversation would bore a cow.

"So," he says when he's had enough of pretending to ignore my watching him breathe, "these creatures. You gonna fill me in, or what?"

I glance at Sam. "How asleep is he?"

Dean leans over slightly, rasing his chin to gaze almost affectionately at the long sleeping form on the other bed. "Sawing logs like there's an ice age coming."

"So that's what that noise is. I thought your television just had remarkable sound."

"There are two remarkable sounds around here. One is him sawing logs. Two is me after a hotdog with onions."

I wrinkle my nose in distaste. "Was relaying that information absolutely necessary?"

He gives me a shit-eating grin.

I sigh and close the laptop I've paid no attention to, due to Dean-distraction. "What is it you wish to know?"

Dean looks at Sam, then uncrosses his ankles and arms. He stands softly, and walks to me, kicking aside his discarded boots, and joins me at the table. "Let's start with what these things are."

I raise my brows. "What these things are." I shift the laptop to the side and lean forward, threading my fingers flat onto the table, and peer closely at him. "Tell me, Dean. How did you feel when Sam died?"

The question throws him. "What the – How the hell do you think I felt?" he asks.

"Tell me."

His nostrils dilates. His jaw clenches, and he sits back in his chair, letting the fingers of his hand drum slowly on the table. Concealing his emotion behind movement. "I don't see what that has to do with the price of rice in Bolivia."

"I bet I can guess. You felt numb at first, Dean. Shrouded in disbelief. You were caught in a void. You felt like your chest had burst open and cold air rushed in, freezing you on the inside. When your hunter friend came back to find you holding your dead brother, he couldn't get through to you. You wouldn't let him lift Sam. _You_ did it, and staggered under his limp, heavy weight. But you knew he would come back, because you wouldn't accept anything else. He would open his eyes, and yet in the depths of your soul, you knew the truth of it.

"You watched him. You couldn't do anything else. He looked like he was breathing, you would swear you saw him take a breath. You kept hearing his voice. You wouldn't let your friend talk to you. You wouldn't let him anywhere near Sam, though he offered so you could rest. You kept waiting for the nightmare to end, knowing that if you slept, Sam would be in your dreams, and you would feel such intense pain when you woke that the brief respite wouldn't be worth it.

"The hours were long and meaningless. You replayed the events in your head over and over again, trying to find that one thing that you did wrong. You kept waiting for Sam to wake. It sickened you that after a full day, he hadn't moved, that he looked grey in the face, that his body was starting to stiffen and chill." I hesitate, because Dean has long since stopped looking at me. I can see a tear stuck in the corner of his eye. His nose has reddened slightly, as has his cheeks, with the effort of keeping himself in check.

"You wouldn't bury him. You still refused to acknowledge your little brother was dead. That you couldn't save him. And it ate at you, it burned within you, and the thought of a world without Sam amounted to nothing. You contemplated suicide. You were so ready, but there was a plan in the back of your head, something that you couldn't bring yourself to imagine. But the despair, the coldness, your frozen heart, holding your brother's dead hand, seeing his still, pasty face, even smelling him, how it was no longer Sam but turning into something putrid, knowing he was gone and his body would rot, the same body you were holding. The body you had carried out of that burning house so long ago, the one you had saved time and time again, the one who insisted on caring for you even though that's the last thing you wanted. He never responded when you smoothed back his hair. His skin was becoming rough and leathered. His fingers too thin, and lifeless.

"You remember how you felt during this time, Dean, when the whole world had been ripped away from you, and all that was left was pure despair. You sit there, and you remember."

Dean is breathing hard, caught in a sensation he never wants to feel again. "You bastard," he finally chokes out in a voice I can barely hear. "How dare you? How the fuck do you know all this?"

"I saw you, Dean. I know what happened." I lean toward him. "That is what the Earthbound are, Dean. You remember how you felt when your brother died, the only thing in the world that you loved. How lost and alone and terrified you were. That's what they are."

"That tells me nothing," he whispers.

"What do you think happens to energy, Dean? Everything manifests over time. The Earthbound are nothing more than pure despair. They're trapped in nothingness, reduced to petty actions in order to experience anything. They can't remember how to function. They are as low as it gets."

He swallows hard, fighting to work his way back to the present. "Why did they do that to Sam?"

"They know nothing else."

It is obvious Dean can't comprehend it. And it is obvious that I've hurt him by dredging up painful memories. "You realize," I say, almost cruelly, "that what you just felt, Sam will experience tenfold when you go to hell. I say that makes him a prime candidate for the Earthbound." Dean looks at me sharply. "Why do you think they've marked him?" I ask. "They're just waiting for the inevitable."

"You mean when I die, he's going back down there?"

"Or worse."

He looks tragic.

"That is, if the demon army doesn't draft him first." I shake my head. "Make you wonder if it was worth it, doesn't it? Bringing him back. Everything changes, Dean. Every action has a consequence. Did you really think that after bringing him back, all life would return to normal? Or, at least, what passes as normal for you."

He doesn't know how to respond. I can't blame him. It is a lot to unload on the shoulders of one so young. He just stands, and goes back to his bed, not looking at me. The mattress dips as he eases onto it, again crossing his ankles and arms. But I notice that he lays a little closer to the edge of his bed as he resumes his television viewing.

A little closer to Sam.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

Dean walks a lot. He paces in the room when bored with the television. He toys with the computer, but again, grows bored easily. He watches Sam, and after determining the mood he's in, invites him to a game of poker, which is about the dullest thing two people can do. But it is designed to pull Sam out of his slump, and after two evenings of watching them pass cards back and forth without saying anything, I've had enough. I excuse myself, and go outside.

My cell phone is in my pocket. I make a call, one I probably shouldn't have. "Thomas?"

"Zach?" He sounds surprised. "Where the hell are you?"

"Funny you should phrase it that way."

"Cellular phones don't work in Hell."

"Thomas, cellular phones were designed in Hell. Anyway, this is about as close as one can get." I leaned against their car, daring Dean to peek out of the window to see me 'scratching' the Impala. "I'm with the Winchesters."

"Who?"

I roll my eyes. "Does torching broads on the ceiling mean anything to you?"

"Only that you were on one hell of a trip at the time."

"That wasn't my fault."

"So you say. You've always had a sadistic streak in you."

"Their mother was the first."

There was a moment, then a breath. "Aaaah. Now I remember. That's when you really thought you were going places."

I shift and fold one arm across my chest. "I don't recall you making a move to stop me."

"I seem to recall being imprisoned so I _couldn't_stop you."

I wince. I'd forgotten about that. "I got you out again."

"After the fact."

"Blame Lucifer. I do."

"Sure. Anyone but yourself. When are you coming back?"

"Soon. Seems we have another Earthbound issue."

He doesn't say anything. I know what's going through his mind. He's the one that pulled me out of that cesspool, after all.

"I'm not asking for your help," I reassure him. "I just want to let you know what's happening."

"Are they after you?" he asks.

"No. They want the younger Winchester. Sam."

"Why? What'd he do?"

"I think it's more like what he's going to do." I glance at the motel, then turn away, speaking more softly. "Seems even they know his destiny."

"Which you had a hand in."

"Not the point. These things — they're even more desperate than when they had me. They didn't do much to him, but I could sense it while I was down there."

"Wait. Zach? You went down there?" I can feel his fury. "Are you insane?"

I roll my eyes. "Someone had to show Dean where Sam was being held. Seeing as there was no way he could find that place himself, I was the most likely candidate!"

"I don't want to hear this." Thomas' voice fades, and I know he's about to hang up.

"Wait!" I yell into the phone, and quickly glance back at the motel room. "Thomas!"

"What?" He's annoyed.

"They weren't there."

"Who?"

"The Earthbound, you fool!"

There is a pause, and I know I have him. "What do you mean, they weren't there?"

"The Earthbound weren't there when we rescued Sam. We were able to just walk in and take him."

There is another pause. "They didn't come after you?"

"No."

I can hear Thomas thinking. "Tell me how to find you."

I throw on my best twenty-first century attitude. "GPS, dude. Learn how to use it." And I hang up.

I walk back inside to a burning argument. Apparently Dean intentionally let a card drop to the floor in order to give Sam an advantage, to make him feel better. Sam's yelling about being babied, Dean's saying he didn't realize the card had fallen, and I've had enough.

I sweep my hand over the table. The cards fly off in an audible flurry. Dean looks at me in wide-eyed astonishment, a sort of 'what did I do?' that just drives me to brace my head with my hands before heading off for a cold shower.

Men.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It's three am. There is a pounding at the door. I merely raise my head from my propped position at the 'dining table', but it scares the shit out of Dean. He bolts upright, one hand pulling his outrageous testosterone-fueled knife from beneath his pillow. Sam's pulled a gun from the duffle laying on the floor beside him, aiming bleary-eyed at the door. I sigh and rise from my chair and walk past him, pressing his weapon down. "Don't bother. It's just Thomas."

"Who?" Dean asks in a breath, and Sam once again raises his gun.

"A friend."

"You have a friend?"

I absently give Dean the middle finger before opening the door. Thomas blusters in, looks me over, then notices the two young men who have weapons trained on him. "Oh."

"I didn't mean you had to come here right away. You didn't have to come at all." I close the door behind him and lead the way to the middle of the small room. "Thomas, Sam and Dean Winchester. And vice-versa." I fall back into my seat and rub my eyes.

"Pleasure. Which is which?" I peek through my fingers to see Thomas studying the men.

"Dean." Dean points at himself with the tip of the knife, then gestures to his brother. "Sam." Aims the blade at Thomas. "And who are you again?"

"Someone who desperately needs a seat, and a drink," Thomas says, shrugging off his long coat and tossing it onto the bed at Dean's feet.

Dean looks at the coat. "I don't suppose we could have this meet and greet some other time? Preferably during daylight?"

"Oh, don't mind me." Thomas waves him away. "Finish your rest. I'm fine."

The brothers exchange an incredulous look, and rise. "I'll fix some coffee," Sam mutters.

Thomas jerks his thumb toward him. "He the one?"

"Yep."

Thomas studies him.

"Whoa, whoa, wait," Dean says, standing slightly behind Thomas, oblivious to the fact that he's wearing only his briefs. "The one what?"

"The one Zach told me about."

"Oh, it is _way_too damn early for this," Dean mutters crossly. "What the hell did he tell you?"

"Doesn't matter. Thomas is up on events." I glance back at Sam, who is setting the small coffee pot to brew. "Of course I didn't expect him to show up here so early."

"I almost decided not to come. I've about had it with saving your ass, but I have news you should probably hear." Thomas leans forward and gestures for Dean to sit. Sam leans back against the kitchen counter as the pot starts to percolate behind him. "You said there were no Earthbound in the lair," Thomas says to me.

"Right."

"You're wrong. They were there. They let you take Sam away."

I have to let this information digest for a moment. A glance at Sam shows him unperturbed, for now. I'm allowed to think as a result. "Why?"

"They're watching him. They're watching all of you."

"Don't be absurd," I say. "They don't make that sort of effort. They're purely reactionary."

"No." He leans forward, and I recognize the glint in his grey eyes. I've seen it a few times before, and it always pits my stomach. "They've become very pro-active."

I lean forward as well, soaking in his words. Dean is at full attention. Sam listens from behind us. "They don't know the meaning of the word," I respond. "Everything about them, everything that has ever been about them, is based on lethargy and despair. That isn't proactive."

"It is when there is a war going on."

"What do they expect to do?"

"Why do they want Sam?"

"He's prime material for them." I say it without thinking, and realize that Sam, delicate, tough Sam, still has no idea what's going on. This isn't the best way to break the news to him. "They can feed on him. They're waiting for either Dean's death, or the demon army to push him over the edge."

"And why would they want that?" Thomas pins me with those mesmerizing eyes of his. "If they are not capable of any precognitive thought, then why are they setting Sam up? We can infer that they have a plan, and these creatures never make a plan."

My mouth slowly drops open as realization dawns on me. I've been so blind.

"They want Sam," Thomas continues. "It may be because of Dean, or this army, there is no telling. But they had him, and let him go, and there has to be a reason for it."

Dean looks very tense. He meets my eyes as I meet his, then veers his stare towards Sam. I do the same. The young man looks just as tense, childlike, his jaw clenching and unclenching and working the vein in his neck. We stay silent for a time, until the coffee pot gurgles.

"Man, what _is_it about my brother?" Dean asks lightly, and sighs. "That coffee ready yet, Sammy?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry." He reaches with that long arm of his for four mismatched mugs, which is all the motel room has, and fills them. He passes the mugs around the table, then returns with a few packets of sugar. He takes a seat beside Dean, gently blowing at his brew, not looking at his older brother, avoiding his concern.

"So," Dean continues, addressing me, "how do we stop this?"

"I'm not sure we do." I'm drumming my fingers against my leg. I've fallen to studying the opposite wall, like the vine pattern is a map out of this predicament.

"I'm not liking that answer. Try again."

"I'm serious, Dean." I face him. "I've never known them to do anything like this. I don't know what their motives are. And as such, I don't know how to stop them."

"So I've got this hanging over my head as well?" Sam asks in annoyance. Poor man. I can't blame him.

"That's what you get for being the sensitive one," Dean mutters into his mug.

"Yeah, well. It sucks."

It is a gross understatement, and so Sam-like. I smile at him, and am surprised to see him smile a little in return. Dean raises a brow, and Sam vanishes into his mug.

Thomas clears his throat. "I suggest you lot all come back with me until we can figure this out."

"Thomas, you old dog," I tease. "You act like you care!"

"About you? I should've left your stupid ass in the pit. Saved us a lot of grief, having you there to distract them."

"I'm touched," I say lightly, and turn to the brothers. "How soon can you be ready to go?"

"Can I finish my coffee first?" Dean asks with perky sarcasm.

"Gulp it down. We leave in ten."

"Pushy asshole," Dean mutters, and I love him for it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Thomas' place overlooks the city, much like mine. The drive isn't too long, fortunately, because while I love my friend dearly, riding shotgun with him is an experience I would not wish on my worst enemy. Well, okay, I would, but I personally shouldn't be subjected to it. Not everything I've done in life is bad enough to deserve this. He has no regard whatsoever for traffic laws. The axiom of 'yellow means go very fast' is lost on him; he flat prefers 'survival of the fastest' which basically means that traffic lights do not exist. I used to accuse him of testing Einstein's theory, asking him if he really wanted to dart back to the beginning of the world before afternoon tea. His response would be a glare, right before flooring it.

We arrive at the basement garage in one piece and record time, and take the elevator to his suite on the top level of the fifteen-story building.

Once inside, I casually toss my coat onto the sofa and go to prepare myself a much-needed drink. After residing in humble abodes, I'm more than ready for posh living. Dean and Sam look so out of place here, all scuffed up and unkempt. I glance over them. "Thomas has a shower, should you care to use it." Thomas merely grunts his approval, casting a wary eye over their appearance.

Dean inhales deeply, and turns to Sam. "Yeah. Sounds good."

"You go first," Sam says. "I want to talk with Zach." Dean looks at him questioningly, but relents.

"Okay." It sounds so dismissive, but I know he's burning with curiosity. Thomas points, and Dean carries a large bag into the bathroom, presumably the one with clothes in it.

"Wouldn't hurt to make use of the laundry facility either," I say to Sam.

"Thanks," he says softly, and takes the beer bottle I hand to him. He sits on a stool at the small island bar that divides the kitchen from the den area. Then he takes in the room.

Thomas is a simple person with simple needs. You would never guess it by looking at his suite. The rooms are decorated in reds and greys, metals and blacks. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with everything from oversized hardbacks on the occult, to spine-torn dog-eared novels by the Bronte sisters. The sofa and chairs are expensive, vibrant red and overstuffed, adorned with small black pillows. The end tables are made of metal bars and glass tops. The dining table sits in the corner, and is matching metal and glass, topped with red napkins and black dinnerware. Crystal goblets sit at each place. The paintings are modern and head-splitting. Small statues dot the room, some made of black onyx, other of stone, the only natural aspect of his dwellings. They add a much needed warmth to the room. I can't think how many times I've wanted to walk in with a piece of wood and stick it someplace. For all the decor, the room is as stiff as Thomas is.

Sam rises and crosses the room to the large bay windows that make up one wall and overlook the city. Below, the lights blink and flash and dance, coming to life in the pollution. I join him, because I want to see his reaction.

He seems to know this. "It's beautiful."

"It's artificial. Damned smog."

His mouth quirks. "This isn't smog. You need to go to LA for that."

"You've been to LA?"

"Once or twice." His tone is guarded, and he takes a swig of his beer.

I nod. "The pollution plays havoc with the senses. It's strange that something so beautiful is created by something so impure." I let the sentence linger, and look over him.

"Now Zach, keep your charms to yourself." Thomas joins us at the window. "Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at these young men."

"I'll gladly throw you out of this window and see how long it takes for you to land," I respond lightly. It's a game with us. I sip at my sherry.

"Cranky bastard." Thomas turns away from the view and sits on one of the overstuffed sofas. He picks up a remote and flicks on the large screen plasma television that he's become addicted to.

I turn to Sam. "You want to talk?"

"Yeah." He rubs his thumb along the side of his bottle. Studying the city below. He finally turns and looks at me, and such is the pain in his expression that he needs to say little.

"I don't know, Sam. I don't know what to tell you."

"Isn't there some spell, some charm, something?"

"To do what? Rid you of yourself? Dean would just bring you back."

"That's not funny."

"No. But it's true."

Sam frowns out of the window, watching as the sky starts to lighten.

I can feel his guilt, how everything seems to happen to him. And I feel his torment, his wonder. He was dead. Not just for a moment, not a near death experience. He was dead. And he can't remember anything about it. It eats at him.

"It wasn't long enough, son," I say consolingly. "You weren't dead long enough to know what's out there."

He looks startled, but continues the train of thought. "Do _you_know?" he asks.

"I've yet to die." I sip again at my drink. It's true. I may not be the classic 'I'm alive!' version, but I'm not exactly dead, either. As I've said before, I'm an abomination.

"Of course. Stupid question."

"Not really. Trust me, I would love to find out. I've been alive for far too long as it is."

"You can't be much older than me," he says, and I realize that Sam Winchester really knows nothing about me.

"I age well."

His mouth quirks. But he must feel something, to ask that question of me.

"_Can_you die?" he asks bluntly.

"Oh, I want to, Sam. I really want to."

Below us, the city twinkles, winking at us, keeping its underground secrets a mystery.

It's a farce. All of it.

Dean comes out of the shower after a half hour or so. Sam hasn't moved from the window. I'm seated at the dining table, after having asked permission to use Sam's laptop. Thomas had merely pointed to his own clumsy machine, but I prefer to use Sam's, simply because it's Sam's. Thomas is very up on anything technical, and we're networked and online in the blink of an eye.

Dean smells nice, like a fresh bar of soap. His hair is damp and close to his head. He's wearing clean jeans and a white t-shirt. He hasn't bothered to put on shoes or socks, and he steps gingerly on the cold hard floor. I gladly let my eyes linger over his form as he walks to Sam, speaking quietly, looking at him with those expressive eyes that I can read so well. Sam nods, and heads for the shower.

I quickly turn my attention back to the screen as Dean walks over, and pulls a chair close. "Now what are you doing?" he asks, but not in annoyance. More like he's teasing me.

"I'm not sure," I confess.

"Oh." Dean leans back. "You do that often?"

"More so than I care to admit." I type in a search, and wait. Google is a wondrous thing, but at the moment, not so helpful.

"You know, I have a friend that might can help us out," Dean says.

"That Bobby Singer of yours? No thanks."

"Why not? The man's an occult genius."

"He'd be in over his head."

"Bet you a nickle he'd surprise you." Dean sounds offended.

"I know he's a friend. But we can't use him. We must keep this amongst ourselves."

"Status quo, huh? Christ." Dean sighs and pushes away from the table. He walks to the window to enjoy the same view Sam has been staring at, and I let my thoughts linger on his double image reflected in the glass.

"I_am_trying to help, Dean," I insist.

"Yeah, yeah." He waves me down.

It has to be hard for him, more so than Sam could ever imagine. Sure, thanks to this deal that Dean's managed to mangle his life with, Sam is getting a taste of it. But to live day to day in fear for your brother's life, having the constant burden of protecting him, it has to wear on a guy. And of course, me being me, I linger on this thought until the question asks itself. "Tell me, Dean. When Sam died, did you feel a moment of relief? Just for an instant?"

His eyes flash at me.

I don't remember him moving. I feel myself lifted, turned, and flung back against one of the large windows. I can imaging it bowing under the pressure. His hand wraps around my throat, lifting me, strangling me. Thomas is suddenly at his back, gripping his shoulders, cursing, prying him away.

I gasp when the grip is released, and Thomas shoves Dean back. We stare each other down. "Truth hurts, doesn't it, Dean?" I croak out.

He's ready to explode again. God, how those eyes burn into me. Every part of him is tense, a piece of thin steel pulled back and ready to spring. But he doesn't. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed," he says instead, and quickly walks through a doorway.

"Wrong room!" Thomas calls out. Dean exits, glares, and walks into the next.

"Guess this means I have the couch," I say roughly, rubbing my throat.

Thomas sighs and rubs his forehead. "The pit," he says. "Remind me again why I got you out?" And he leaves me alone.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The boys sleep most of the day. They rise to eat and to watch a little television. And by night, they've fallen again, exhaustion and tension taking it's toll. I watch over them, and let them sleep.

The Earthbound are not supposed to be unpredictable. They have no real capacity for thought. They act on impulse, but it is always the same impulse, which therefore encourages predictable behavior. They rarely come above ground, and when they do so, it is just long enough to take their victims down with them where they disappear for a good length of time, as though working up the nerve to reappear.

This is why I didn't anticipate the attack.

A crash startles me from my sleep, and loud yells wake me fully. At first I think the sounds are from a nightmare, but there is something in the tone that drives me to my feet, whipping my robe about me. The air chills instantly. I try to turn on the lights, to no avail. Thomas bolts out of his room, looking disheveled in the moonlight and reflected city. We launch ourselves into the room Sam and Dean are sharing.

The place is crawling.

Everywhere there are eyes, beings of darkness, mere shadows, crawling over the walls, hanging from the ceiling, covering the floor. Four are on top of Sam. He's the one screaming, as they tear at his arms.

I can't see Dean.

I hurl myself at Sam, flinging the creatures away, and pull him off the bed, and to his feet. A slimy substance strings from him to me as he regains his senses and takes a fighting stance. "Where's Dean?" he asks me quickly. He's trembling and trying to regain his composure. I'm sure his memories are terrifying.

"I don't know." I swing my arms at two more that head for us. Thomas has a golf club, and anything within reach is fair game.

Sam takes in the darkness around him, and the overly large eyes that glow at him. "They're like shadow creatures!" he says loudly over the screechings and scrabbling of the Earthbound. "Turn on the lights!"

"I can't! They're shut off!" I shout back, but have an idea. I pull at his arm.

We hurry to the kitchen. It's then that I notice how cold the room is. A rough breeze is blowing through. One of the large bay windows is broken, leaving behind jagged teeth of glass. Sam starts for it as I fling open cabinets.

Thomas keeps cleaning supplies underneath the sink for his maid. I grab a lighter from the drawer next to it, and an aerosol can used for dusting. I rush back in to see Thomas half-buried beneath the Earthbound. Of course, he's not one to make a scene. Sometimes I wish he would. I light up, and set flames shooting into the room.

The reaction is immediate. The screams are unbearable as they cover their sensitive eyes and release my friend. In a black wave they race out of the bedroom to crash back out of the second window.

"Don't bother using the one you broke!" Thomas shouts from behind me. He's limping, and holding his arm.

I turn to him, but a frantic cry sends my attention back to the window. With a stab of fear, I remember the crashing sound that woke me, and suddenly know where Dean is.

Sam has busted out the bottom shards of glass, and is leaning out, yelling. There's no way, _no way, _Dean is there. There's no balcony for him to fall to, nothing to grab hold of. Unless — I suddenly remember the narrow decorative ledge that runs between the floors. It is barely enough to cling to, yet I dare to hope.

I'm frozen to the spot, but Sam's expression of panic as he looks over his shoulder at me startles me into movement. Dean's on that ledge. Somehow, he's hanging on.

I turn to Thomas, reaching for him, ready to bark out an order but he's two steps ahead of me, snatching the sheet from his bed and rushing to the window. He throws one end out, leans over, calls down. I want to move toward them, but find I am again rooted to the spot. There is sudden tension on the sheet as Sam and Thomas both hold on, tilting back against the weight, yelling encouragement. And finally a hand appears, and Sam grabs on with a grip that looks to break it. He pulls, and another hand appears, then a pained, shocked face. Thomas leans over and grabs him by the waist, and the three of them tumble onto the floor.

Oh – crap. Oh – thank you.

I'm suddenly beside them. Thomas rises to get another towel. Dean is cut, and he's holding his ankle. "Hit it on that damned ledge," he says shakily. "That's how I knew it was there."

"You held onto that ledge?" I ask in amazement. "It's barely four inches wide."

"Better than falling fifteen stories. Managed to get an elbow up." His bare feet are raw from where he had desperately tried to brace himself, to crawl back up. Sam braces him as he stands and limps to the sofa. He takes a seat beside him, his eyes never leaving his brother.

Thomas returns with damp towels. He hands me two, and I quickly press them to Sam's bleeding arms. His cuts aren't deep, but those creatures being what they are, I don't want to risk anything. I start to clean them thoroughly, ignoring the hisses of pain.

Thomas checks Dean over. He can put weight on his left foot, though it is swelling slightly. His face is lined with cuts, as are his arms, where no doubt he used them to keep most of the glass from slicing his face as he flew through the window. I glance back. Dean had fallen through the lower half, shoved out of it more than likely, rather than thrown. If he had been thrown he would have missed the ledge. As it was, he would have rolled onto it and been able to grab hold. Damned luck. I glance back at him as Thomas dabs at the cuts on Dean's face. He winces and pulls away.

Thomas then hands him a towel so he can tend to his feet. "You're not going to want shoes for a while," he says.

"Please. I have feet like leather." Dean squeezes the towel around the sole of his left foot, and winces.

Thomas snorts. "I have antiseptic. I'll be right back."

"Put it on Sam!" Dean calls out to his back, and turns to his brother, taking in his injuries. "You doing okay there?" he asks, and I notice his voice goes from gruff to something almost tender.

"I'm fine." Sam's gritting his teeth, whether from the pain or against the whole situation, I'm not sure. I continue my ministrations, waiting for the ointment, seeing that the long scrapes will not require stitches.

Dean watches me with a critical eye as I doctor Sam, gently wiping down the wounds. Thomas returns with a white tube and some bandages. We easily use over half of it on Sam's arms, and wrap them tightly.

Thomas then turns to Dean with the tube. Dean stiffens. "No, I'm fine. Really. Give me the tube and get some socks out of my bag, and I'm good to go."

Thomas huffs slightly, but does as Dean requests. The tube is passed over, and Dean carefully dabs it on his wounds. He is annoyed as Thomas applies a butterfly bandage on a cut over his eye.

"How the hell did you end up out there?" Sam asks. The poor boy is half a mummy.

Dean looks like he doesn't want to talk about it. "Couldn't sleep," he says to his feet. "So I got some water. I saw this shadow outside the window, which bothered me cause we're like next to God up here, and I'm pretty sure what I saw wasn't no angel." He caps the tube. "Next thing I know, I have these – things – on me." He shrugs off the rest of the explanation.

"And?" Sam's not letting him off the hook that easily.

"And what? What else is there to know? You wanna know why I didn't stop them getting to you? I tried, Sam. I saw them head for the door and I tried, but I couldn't get there." He leans over, elbows on knees, playing with the tube. He looks up as Thomas hands him his socks. "Thanks," he mutters.

Thomas studies him for a moment, then kneels before him. "You did the best you could," he says.

"You mind?" Dean gestures that Thomas is in his way, then gingerly slides a sock over his left foot.

"Did you hear me?" Thomas asks.

"Yeah, I heard. Enough with the pep talk already." Dean winces as he carefully covers his other foot. The soles are scraped, but once cleaned are not as bad as I had thought, and he is able to put his weight on the floor.

"How did they get in here?" I ask, but no one answers.

"I'm just glad you caught that ledge," Sam says softly.

Dean looks at him, and there is a mental exchange that only happens between brothers so close. "Yeah. Me too." And so much more is said in that wordless exchange that I turn away, feeling voyeuristic.

Thomas is looking at the broken windows. He sighs heavily, and reaches for his phone.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Thomas is an odd bird. The oldest memory I have of him, is how he would always follow me around we were young. I've no idea where it was, or when, but it snowed often. The snowdrifts were no obstacle for him. He would dance along the tops as light as a puff of dandelion on the wind, while my clumsy self would stagger and fall and sink, and yet he never took the lead. He always followed. He would tease me, saying that he was able to stay up top because I showed him where not to step, but the truth was, he wasn't a natural leader. He felt better having someone's directions to follow. Maybe he thought if he messed up, he could put the blame on someone other than himself, though I never heard him do it. Maybe he suffered from a lack of confidence. Maybe it simply never occurred to him to try to lead. I was the one out in front. I was the one that was beaten while he hid in the shadows, waiting for the bullies to back off so he could cart my broken body away. He was my brace, my rock, the one thing I could never live without. Every time I fell, he was there to catch me.

When the illness hit, it hit hard and without warning. One day we were throwing snowballs and eating the glassy flakes as they drifted in the chilled air; next he was on the ground, coughing up red, clotted blood, splattering the pristine innocence of childhood with impending death.

I was at his side, yelling at him to get up. He rolled and looked at me with those bright eyes of his. "I'm sick and tired of you bossing me around," he said.

He died three days later.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

Warning: This chapter has a scene that borders on "adult" non-con material. As usual. . .trust me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

We can't stay here. Thomas is already making plans to leave, scouring his maps for appropriate hiding places out of the state. We both know it is useless. The Earthbound not only lie beneath this city, they lie beneath every city, and deep in the hearts of men. There is no escaping them, and running will only kill you faster.

I look at the brothers. They are in a corner of the room, heads bowed together, deep in conversation. This is the first time I've seen them talk so much without arguing. They are making a plan, or hiding in the guise of one. But I already said what little good hiding does for a soul, so I figure they're reassuring each other. That Dean is caring for his little brother, and for once, Sam is letting him.

Sam can feel that cold grip still. He's scared, he needs what every person needs at various points in their stressful, lonely lives: for someone to say that everything is going to be just fine. Dean pats Sam's knee, and Sam gives a little smile decorated with a smaller laugh.

Thomas is sitting in his chair. He flings his papers to the floor. His hands scrub through his hair, not as thick as it once was, the illness took care of that. He looks at me, and we lock gazes, and for a moment, I'm back in those younger years, watching as he follows my lead. "We could hunt them out," I say to the room, shrugging. "Find out exactly what they want."

"And then what? Just give it to them?" Dean stands, wincing slightly. His boots are on, and those stiff things can't be comfortable on his injury.

"If need be."

"You can't be serious."

"Look at my face, Dean. I'm deadly serious." I walk to the busted window. The spare sheets do little to cover the hole.

I hear him come behind me, and know that I've proved nothing to him. He would just as soon push me out of the window as listen to me. "They want Sam," he mutters hotly.

"I know."

"I don't get it." He's right in my ear, his voice still hot with anger, and I can feel his heat, his breath, and it is all I can do not to respond to it. "You took me down to that lair to save Sam. Why?"

"To take their attention from me."

Dean steps closer to me, leaning into my personal space. "Wait a minute._You're_the one they want?"

"Ultimately? Yes."

He nods. His brows raise over sharp eyes. "Then you're right. They can have you." He turns and walks back to his brother, mutters to him, and picks up his jacket.

"You won't get out of the city." I haven't turned. "They'll still come after you."

"Why?" Dean yells. "You're what they want! Why the hell didn't they just take you when they had the chance?"

"They can't."

Dean throws his jacket to the floor. "Okay, you know what? I am sick and tired of these fucking games!" I hear a click, and know a gun has been pulled. "Now tell us what the hell is going on, or I swear to god your brains will land on the street!"

I raise a hand to stop Thomas, who advances toward him. "You want to leave here? Fine. We all leave. Together." I pin him with my eyes, and he lowers the gun. He's not happy, but the gun goes down.

"No," Thomas says. It surprises me, and I turn to him. He's wincing at the floor, as though the process of thought hurts him. "We stay here. If we leave, they'll look for us. I think they're expecting us to leave. We'll never get out of the city." He sighs heavily, and I feel the burden of a thousand years on his shoulders. "Besides, I've already put in a call to have the windows repaired. They're on the way now."

"Reinforced steel?" I remark wryly. "Like your priorities?"

"Unpack your bags," Thomas continues, looking at Dean. "I'll fix us something to eat." And he walks into the kitchen and starts rummaging around as though nothing happened, as though we weren't half-freezing from the air blowing in at fifteen stories up, as if we'd not been attacked by the Earthbound. For once, Sam, Dean and I share the same look of astonishment on our faces.

Sam opens his mouth to say something, then shakes his head. He sits in one of the overstuffed chairs, his back to the window. "Pass me my jacket, will ya?" he asks Dean, and catches it as it is tossed to him, draping it over him to guard against the chill. Dean, for his part, scratches behind his ear and looks around, then meanders over to Thomas' CD collection. He flits through, pursing his lips as a cover catches his eye, and ejects Thomas' current music of choice. After a moment, a grinding beat fills the air, and Dean eases down the volume. Sam nods at the selection, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement, and he leans forward to take a mug-braced magazine from the table.

Like nothing happened. I watch the scene in amazement, then turn and look at the shards of glass covering the floor underneath the windows. The hell with it.

I retire to their bedroom to think.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It turns out I'm not the only one thinking.

Thomas stays out from work for a day, overseeing the window repairs. He returns to his job with strict orders that I'm not to do anything stupid. What he means by this, I can not hazzard a guess. I make use of his telephone, calling the office and arranging meetings that I can miss due to more pressing matters. It may seem to piss off a client, to have a meeting cancelled on them at the last minute, but I've found the tactic to in fact be very productive. If a client is serious about working with me, and they almost always are, the meeting will be rescheduled. It is a way to weed out the trash and prevent me wasting away the hours. It also puts on the air of running a successful industry that demands my attention on a constant basis, so that the clients have to battle for my precious time. It is a front. I spend a lot of time in the office playing mini-golf on my carpet.

Sam and Dean had talked deep into the morning hours after the attack. The mending of the windows prevented daytime napping. No one slept well that night either, though the suite was much warmer.

So I'm up with coffee at five am, have bacon and eggs on at five-thirty, and shove Thomas out the door at six like a scolding housewife. The boys, bleary-eyed and exhausted, shuffle in after trying in vain to 'catch a few z's' as Dean puts it. I'm suddenly reminded why it's called beauty sleep. They need it.

They eat, meander about, then disappear into showers and light conversation. Sam ends up on his laptop, and Dean on the sofa with a mechanics magazine. Why Thomas has a mechanics magazine, I have no idea. Maybe because it's red with silver trim.

Can't have been interesting, as Dean is out like a light within ten minutes.

Sam has always had a habit of watching Dean, looking up to him as a younger brother should. But there is something sad in the way he watches him now. A younger brother's devotion doesn't usually involve counting breaths. I watch as Sam's eyes glide over the lean figure. I can't see Dean from my seat, but I can see Sam. He brings his hands together underneath his chin and watches with a sorrowful expression that kicks me in the gut. He's planning, thinking, debating, and I know this goes on every night, every day, every waking moment when they are not on a case, or running for their lives. I know it annoys Dean, not because of the attention, but because of the pain on Sam's face, knowing he's the one that causes it. I know Dean suffers a load of regret, because this is the only way he's discovered the depth of feeling his brother has for him. Dean honestly never knew. And now it is something that is fleeting, and I bet he wishes he'd known it sooner.

We haven't talked about this. I just know Dean Winchester.

Sam finally decides to take a walk, to clear his head. He needs air, he needs to get out. I can't blame him, and instruct him to go no farther than the front of the building. Dean's napping on the sofa is the only way Sam is able to go out alone, and I admit I don't care for it. I tell him if he isn't back in fifteen minutes, the hellhounds will be sent for him. He doesn't think this is funny.

And I stand, and watch from the newly repaired window as he paces below me. If he smoked, he would be lit and flaming.

I'm five minutes into the fifteen when I hear a snort and grunt behind me. I turn to see a disheveled head peering above the back of the sofa. It's startling, to say the least, to suddenly see a face there. "Sleep well?"

"Any sleep is good," he coughs, and sits up with a moan. The cuts on his face are healing nicely. He's walking normally. And he didn't argue with Sam earlier when Sam insisted on keeping his arms unwrapped, though he did insist on inspecting them before agreeing. So the brothers are healing. "What about you?"

I turn back to the window.

"You don't sleep, do you?"

I choose not to answer.

"Freak." Dean stands, and shuffles to the kitchen for some coffee.

"Your insults used to amuse me. Now they're just irritating."

Dean peeks around the corner at me with a smile. "Good." He frowns suddenly. "Where's Sam?"

"Down there." I nod at the street. Dean joins me at the window, empty mug in hand.

"What's he doing?"

"Gosh, Dean, looks like he's walking to me, but you're the expert."

"And you're an ass. He shouldn't be down there."

"He's a big boy." I raise my brows appreciatively. "Very big."

"You're disturbing, you know that?"

"It's a part of my charm."

"Whatever." Dean returns to the kitchen.

I can't let go of Dean's presence just yet. There is something so innocent about him when he first wakes. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, making him vulnerable and young. The hardness is gone, just for a while. His mussed hair begs to be fixed, his lazy stumble brings out the protective streak in me. I watch as he sets more coffee to brew, still holding his cup. I half expect him to put the cup underneath the drip, rather than the pot. "You've been talking a lot, you and Sam."

"So?" His voice is muffled, as his head is all the way into the refrigerator.

"Resolve anything?"

Dean pulls back and gives me a confused, and slightly disgusted, look. "About what?"

"Anything."

"Are you that desperate for conversation?"

"Maybe."

He ponders this. "Okay. Fine. Tell me this, then." He closes the door and braces himself on the counter beside it. "I want to know who you are. I want to know how you know so much about me and my brother, and I want to know why you care about what happens to us. That enough conversation for you?"

I think about it. "Actually, I have a question for you. It's something I've wondered for a while now. Why do _you_care what happens to you?" He stares at me, and I continue. "I mean, you don't believe in God. The only reason you believe in hell is because you've seen it. I don't know where the line between good and evil goes with you, Dean. It's fascinating." I select a mug for myself. "What is it you're fighting for? You don't believe in the pearly gates. Everything you've ever seen in your tiny life is bad, and yet you insist on fighting for purity. Nothing turns you, nothing phases you. So what is it?"

"You make me sound like Luke Skywalker decked out in white or something. I prefer Han Solo."

"Oh, you're not pure, Dean. Not by a long shot. But you try so hard. Why is that?"

He's uncomfortable. His face is serious as he mulls his answer over in his head. "I don't know. 'Cause I'm scared not to."

"Because your father drilled it into you."

"You don't know nothing about my Dad." His defenses rise.

"I know. I know about all of it, Dean. I know things that Sam doesn't know, and never will."

He looks alarmed, then eases slightly at my silent promise. "You bug the shit out of me," he mutters. "Can't wait until this crap's over with."

"You haven't answered my question. Do you do this because it's all you know?"

"Who else is gonna look out for Sammy? Huh?" He's getting pissed, like I'm backing him into a corner, and I am.

"That's not the point. This goes way back, Dean, back before you knew about your brother's plight. You were always a hunter. Sam walked away from it. What kept you here? Did your father's grip hurt that much? Did you love the pain that much?"

I'm taunting him. I'm being cruel. I'm angry because he won't be up front with me.

He faces me, nose to nose, or as close as our difference in height allows. "I swear to god, you need to back the fuck off. You got that?"

"You swear to god. You keep saying things like that. Why?"

"What the hell does it matter?" he yells.

"It matters," I say calmly, and take his mug from him. I pour his coffee, and hand it to him.

He knows I'm not going to let him out of the conversation. He sips cautiously, angrily, and sighs. "I just, I don't know. I want to believe. I want someone to prove it to me."

"Prove what?"

"That there's got to be a reason for all this shit. There's got to be more than this."

I grin. "Oh, come on. This isn't you talking, Dean. This is your brother. His innocence has tainted you. I bet he forced these words into your mouth."

He shakes his head. "Do you know how many churches I've been in? It ain't to pray. It ain't to look for something good. There's always something bad in there, something evil, something that needs to be destroyed. And I destroy it. The one time we thought there was something good, it was as fake as everything else. So how the hell do I know, huh? How do I know Heaven exists, when all I see are demons and possessed things and cursed objects all floating around these churches? Preacher's wives calling on reapers. Crosses being used to bind people. People killing in the name of angels. You tell me where the good is? I mean, with all this, there's got to be something out there, something that God and this so-called religion can't even _touch_."

I frown as I approach him. "Do you seriously believe there is more than God? He created the universe, everything in existence. That includes parallel worlds, other dimensions, things you can't even begin to comprehend. He is many names, but one divine power, one Being."

He winces at me. "Dude, you going on a holy crusade?"

"You're not hearing me. There is one good, and one evil. It is the same. One can't exist without the other, you know that. You destroy all the evil, the good goes with it. You destroy Hell, and Heaven becomes it."

His eyes lower as I continue. "Quite a paradox, isn't it? Killing evil, and calling it doing good. Killing is killing. By doing that you're not bringing more good into the world, you're creating more evil. Either way upsets the balance."

He glares at me. "Did you not hear anything I just said? You think the scales aren't already tilted?"

"And bad begets bad? I think you're not helping the problem."

"Oh, so now _I'm_evil?"

I lean into him. "Yes."

"Go to hell." Dean scowls, and turns away.

Okay,_that_pisses me off. I've had enough of his attitude. Enough of his arrogance. Enough of his presence, his confusion, his scent, and of how his scent confuses _me._ I want to pull him from behind this wall he's building. He's so stubborn, I want to claim him. Break him. Or maybe I want to prove that he _is_ the real thing, and can't be broken.

His coffee mug breaks on the floor as I reach out and grab him by both arms, and pull them roughly behind his back. He yells out in angry surprise and squirms, trying to turn, trying to get to me. I ignore him, holding him tightly, and force him into Thomas' bedroom, slamming the door behind me with the heel of my boot. I throw him towards the bed, quickly reaching behind me to lock us in.

Dean spins and looks at me, incredulous. "What the – you son of a bitch!" He charges, and I grab him again, wrestling him back towards the bed. He notices, and panic flashes across his face before I tilt him back onto the mattress. He fights, and he's strong, so strong, and my senses are overwhelmed with everything Dean. I quickly straddle his waist, holding his wrists firmly. I try to ignore the way he moves beneath me. I can remember too much, and to have this arrogant bastard beneath me like this is almost more than I can bear. His eyes are angry, his face is red, and there is so much uncertainty there. I lean over him, putting my weight on his wrists, pinning them against his chest. He can't do a damn thing once I shift and plant a knee just above his groin.

"Do you need a demonstration?" I ask right into his face. "Tell me, Dean. Let's continue this little conversation. What are your views on love?"

"_What_?" If it were possible to elicit a deep squeak, I did it then. He continues to squirm, to try and buck me off, but his limited movement proves useless.

I press down harder. "Answer me!"

"If you want a consult, call Dr. Fucking Ruth!"

"What would you say if I tell you that you're more than my senses can handle? That I want nothing more than to experience you? Would you call that love?"

It takes a moment for my words to register. When they do, Dean's eyes widen, and his struggles renew, his face twisting in desperation. "You sick bastard!" he spits out.

"Is this kind of love a good thing, Dean?"

"You don't love me!"

"I do." I move my knee and sit back on him, releasing his wrists, but not letting him up. "Who says that love has to be reciprocated, in order to be called love?"

He presses up with his elbows. "Get off me," he growls. "Now!" He tries to push up, but I outweigh him by a good thirty pounds, and sitting on his stomach on the soft mattress gives me the advantage.

"You tell me this, Dean Winchester. If I were to _take_you, right here, right now – would my love be a good thing?"

"No! Get the fuck off!" The panic is back. I throw my weight forward on him, laying whole on his body, pinning his arms. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, feel that he is not the least bit aroused by my confession to him. He is aroused by the adrenaline from his struggle against it.

"I could take you now, Dean," I say into his neck, and feel him shiver as my breath rakes his flesh. "I could show my love to you. I feel secure in this emotion. I feel real. I feel alive, I feel good. So does that make my love wrong?"

"Rape is wrong!" he says forcefully, in a low voice, and tries to shove at me. "Taking what isn't yours, is wrong! You know this, you're not an idiot!"

"And neither are you." I sit back again, but keep hold of his arms. "Which is why I'm not going to rape you, Dean. I can't believe you'd think that of me. I said I wanted to experience you. It's a different thing."

"Then get off me!" He's confused, and scared. Always a man of action, my words throw him into a state of frenzy.

"Not until you hear me out." I hear the front door close, hear Sam call Dean's name, and know I'm running out of time. I continue quickly. "There is a thin line between good and evil, Dean. Morality is that line, and even that differs from being to being. So we can say to harm one is to harm another, when really it is all the same thing. When you destroy, you destroy yourself. You remove a life, and damage your soul in the process. You kill yourself. So you can say what you want about churches and crosses and good and evil. In the end, all that matters is what you chose to do. _That_is why you're fighting. You want the same thing I do."

"And what's that?" Dean grits.

"You want everything to be just fine, _right Now_." I hear a knock, and Sam's voice. I lean forward. "_Now_is all that matters. Don't think about anything else. Don't question, don't ask, don't wonder. Right now, there is no good, no evil."

The threat is gone, leaving him incredulous. "You had to sit on me to tell me this?"

"No. I just found it pleasant to do so."

"Bastard!" He yanks at my grip. He still doesn't trust me.

I lean forward, again pressing his wrists again to the mattress. "I could do it, Dean. I could take pleasure in you. It's all subjective." I pin his eyes with my own. "Think about it. No absolute good. No absolute evil. Only degrees. It depends on the moment. You remember that." There is banging on the door, and a threat to break it down. I stay where I am, because I want to see if Sam is serious.

He is.

He bursts in, sees me on top of his brother, and lunges.

I jump aside at the last minute, leaving them entangled on the bed. Rage has nothing on the younger Winchester as he pushes off his brother and faces me.

"Relax, Sam," I soothe. "Don't be so quick to judge. I was merely making a point." Sam stares at me, his chest heaving, and sends a questioning look to a livid, but completely unharmed Dean. I straighten my clothes and walk out, leaving both boys to talk.

It starts immediately, with Sam asking, "Are you okay?" then yelling out, "What the hell is going on?"

I force myself not to eavesdrop on that particular conversation.

It doesn't last long. Sam explodes from the bedroom with Dean behind him. "All right," he says, "I want to know who the hell you are, what you were doing to my brother, and why the hell we're still here!"

I don't answer right away. Instead, I sigh. The time has come. I can sense it, I've known it for a while. Since they can't work out the story in their own heads, they'll have to be told, and this isn't going to be pleasant. I see them looking at me, burning with righteous fury, and I'm suddenly furious myself. How dare they judge me? They have no idea what my life has been like. And I _love_them? These hypocritical bastards? They look at me like I've crawled out of the sewer and ruined their own love-fest, rather than saving their lives. How dare they? My anger grows. I'll show them. I'll show them who I am, in the manner they are used to seeing. Sam circles me, so that I stand between him and his brother.

I flash Sam a deliberate smile, and turn towards Dean. It is reminiscent of the night the hell gate opened, and I know it. My memory serves well. And I know Sam will remember the night his enemy calmly walked towards his brother to kill him.

Sam is in front of Dean in a flash, his arm shooting out across his brother's chest, protecting him. It surprises Dean. It greatly pleases me. "Stay away from him," he warns me in a low growl. "I mean it. Stay the fuck away from him."

The memory does indeed serve, and in his gut he knows who I am without realizing it. "Such words! You two are killing me with your kindness. It would almost be nauseating, if it weren't so damn hot." I grin at the shock on their faces. "I feel things to the tenth degree that either of you do," I explain, "and yet I feel nothing. I rely on humans like you to feed me, to make me remember." I let my words sink into their startled expressions as I step towards them, my need overriding, well, everything. "I am a memory. My actions are remembered, my senses are remembered. Everything I think I experience, is just a memory. I live through the two of you. I always have."

"What do you mean, always?" Sam asks. He's still in front of Dean. Protective. Dean is tense, ready to pull Sam back and away from me. It's too much. I once had a protector like that, and I ache for it again.

My body sags. "I mean what I say. You two have always affected me."

"You're insane," Dean mutters.

"Yes," I agree softly.

I shouldn't have let down my guard. I don't know how it happens, but the room spins, and I black out.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

My head hurts like a mother, which is a new sensation for me. I groan loudly, just to give the boys the proper pleasure before I tear from my bindings and rip their lungs out, the cocky, self-serving sons of bitches. My eyes open, and despite the pain, my brows raise slightly. I'm tied to one of the dining room chairs, my arms and legs bound by rope, presumably from their Impala, because I doubt Thomas is kinky enough to have such an item on hand. Pity he's not here. He would pay good money to see this. A devil's trap has been hastily scrawled on the floor around me. Yeah, that would piss Thomas off.

"You're up." Dean walks toward me, stopping just a few feet away. "Good. I want you to be conscious for this." He hold up a small book.

"What is that?" I suddenly feel like I could explode, like sensations are pouring into my ears and killing my brain.

"This, my so-called friend, is your one-way ticket home." Dean replies smartly, and smirks. He opens the book.

"Hell? You're sending me to hell?" I can only blink at him. "You're joking."

"Now, come on. Would I kid you?"

No. I'm not going back there. Fury rises in me. "Can't you take me there yourself?"

"Cute." Dean winks with false enthusiasm, and starts to flip through the pages.

I look at him. Then I break into deep laugher that surprises even me. I see how it affects them. Dean looks surprised, then pissed. Sam, now at his brother's side, looks ready to explode. "What's so funny?" he demands.

It's such a childish request. I laugh harder, doubling over as best as my bound frame will let me. Side-splitting.

"I find it ironic, that's all," I say once I manage to breathe.

Dean leans over me. "Ironic that you're the one who had Sam kidnaped and taken down there? That's how you knew where to go. You knew."

"No, that isn't true. I have been captive there, myself."

"Demons lie," he says simply, and waves the book at me. "You see this? Now you start talking, or I'm tossing your glamour-gal ass right back to the pit."

"But I don't want to go to hell, Dean," I say, annoyingly calm. "I don't want it any more than you do."

"Oh, really? Did you think about that when you kidnaped my brother?"

"Look, I told you, I – do you seriously think I'm going to just sit here and take being tossed back into hell?"

"You were there for a reason," he says.

"Oh really?" I mimic Dean's earlier tone, because I'm growing uncomfortable. "And just what have you done that's so bad that you deserve to go, huh?" Dean says nothing. I press on. "I can help you."

"I've got that covered," Sam cuts in smartly. "But thanks."

I merely blink at Sam. "You've done nothing. Dean still has a one-way ticket and a first-class seat. I can fix that."

"Forget it," Dean says sharply.

"Why send me back?"

"Because you're a fucking demon!"

"And you're a fucking whore!" I spit out, enraged. "Dean Winchester, resident male sex-god wanna-be. Do you seriously think your moral standards are any better than mine, you bastard?"

Dean growls and lunges, only to be pulled back by Sam. "Cool it," he says to Dean, "he's just yanking your chain."

"I'm gonna yank his. . ."

"Oh, please say it. I haven't had a good yank in centuries." My lips curl suggestively.

Dean looks disgusted. "You demons all the same."

"Just like you, Mr. Womanizer. Annoying, isn't it? Sharing a trait with a 'demon'."

He smirks. "And yet, _somehow_ I don't think it's the ladies you're after."

"I'm not human. Therefore I'm not partial."

"Yeah, well — that's just disturbing," Dean mutters.

"Either way, wouldn't it be fair to hear my side of things before you condemn me?"

"I don't play fair."

"I've noticed."

"So, what, you want to convince us you're some _innocent_being? That you're not some freak of nature inhabiting someone else's body?"

"I assure you, this body is mine."

"Meaning the original owner's dead."

Interesting way to put it. "Yes. It's what I am."

"All the more reason to send you back to hell," he growls, and flips pages in the book with fervor.

"Hear me out first. Please."

Dean visibly struggles with the decision.

"I did save your life," I say to Sam. "End result. I saved you."

Got ya.

Dean grits his teeth, then slams down the book on a table. "Fine. Shoot. But make it quick. ADD has nothing on me, and if this isn't a good story? You won't have time to fake the ending."

"Just sit down," I say calmly, and start speaking.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I can't remember being born. I figure I was, surely at one time or another I had to be human. My memories are more sensation now than actual fact. It has occurred to me that I am unique in this way, because I've never heard of anyone who was – dead – being able to experience the fullness of life through memories as I do. Perhaps I've lived too long.

I remember snow. Long, cold winters that never melt away. Siberia, maybe. Was that my birthplace? There is no way to know. I could have been born in hell when it was nothing more than an icy core inside a planet of rock, before God grew angry and set it aflame. What? God has a temper. You think I blaspheme? I was there, at some point, at his right hand. I was cast away to serve the Underlord, then spat back out. You've never felt loneliness until you realize even immortality does not want you.

You smirk. I'll allow it.

But I am being honest when I say that I have been human, and then I was a god. It is the in-between I am fuzzy on.

The earliest sensation I can remember is one of peace. The most vivid memory is pain. So much pain, for years, millennia. Forever. It never faded. I never grew used to it. Dean, you think you have an idea of what hell is? You have no clue, and if you did, you would have let your brother go on to his resting place and left it alone.

I realize I'm being ambiguous. It isn't intentional, this is honestly how my mind works. I am nothing more than random snapshots in an old album.

I do remember this. I committed a crime. I loved another.

This other person was my mentor, my soul, my guide, my best friend. We talked together, ate together, lay together. It was symbiosis. We were a part of each other, and yet we didn't complete each other, the way one would think of a soul mate. We merely pushed each other onwards. We were forced to better ourselves. We evolved.

But there were those around us who did not evolve as we did. And I tried to show them the beauty that I felt for myself and my friend. I am of a creative mind. I was stupid enough to believe I would be in His image if I were to create something wonderful. It was such a simple thing. A treat, really. An ambition that went horribly wrong.

So I showed these beings around us how to make use of the metals and colors of His world. I showed them how to adorn themselves, how to make themselves feel as wonderful and beautiful as I felt in my love. I gave them riches, hoping they would see what it is like to be generous, to be loved, and at the same time to praise the Glory Which Created All.

But they abused it. They fell. They became vain. They started to bicker and squabble like the petty things they turned out to be, and I grew tired of it. My objects of beauty were no longer used to join people together, but to rip them apart. And since they were so determined, I showed them how to sharpen these jewels into knives. I decorated these weapons into a romantic sense of irony, physically demonstrating what their lust had become. And they used them heartily. What they coveted, they took by force, one jewel cruelly carving out another. The beauty became a curse of nations. There was no love.

I was blamed by all those around me. I was accused of corrupting these poor people, and as a result cast out into a desolate ruin where I lay for what seemed a thousand years. The swirling sands withered me. The fierce heat baked me. People walked over me as I crumbled into dust, the very same people that I had decorated in finery, yet they never looked at each other. Instead they stared at the riches I created, and only had eyes for the prestige it would bestow upon them.

I felt ill. I had lost love, and therefore my life, my purpose. All I could do was lay and watch as the human race evolved into a way contrary to what I had tried to show them. I had created havoc. I sank deep into the earth, and into despair.

Lucifer found me. I was teetering on the edge of Hell, feeling bitter, angered, and wanted nothing more than to destroy what had put me there in the first place. There is no beauty, I thought. There is only pain. And Lucifer fed that pain. He rewarded me for my crime, and made me an Underlord like himself, renaming me, and taking me under his dark wing. I was a young fool, and set out to destroy what I had created, with the intention of going back to Him and destroying Him too.

Funny how I remember more, talking to you.

For hundreds of years we created chaos, Lucifer and I. We helped to invent the bomb. When people fought for peace, we sent floods to wipe them out. Hellfire rained from volcanoes. Leaders of nations went mad, and committed genocide in the name of physical perfection. We slowly tore the human race apart.

We're still tearing it apart. That is – _they are_. You see, I found something that stopped me from wanting to continue the fight. Someone that restored my faith in humanity, and reminded me of that bond that I once shared with another. So where once I rebelled against the heavens, I now rebelled against Hell.

Again I was imprisoned as a traitor, and this time accused of plotting against Lucifer, to try and take control of Hell. I was thrust into the same pit that held you, Sam. But the truth is, I didn't want Hell. I didn't want Heaven. I wanted that simple beauty back, that time when all I had to do was lose myself in someone's eyes to find glory. But I couldn't go back, and if there was one thing I learned in my time in Heaven and Hell, it was that there is only one time to make things happen. I wanted _Now_.

When I was freed, I was enraged, consumed by revenge to the point where the last bit of good sense left me. I needed an army, and was willing to do anything to create one. An army of my own to control, to take back my realm. I found soldiers. I found you, both so young, both so protected. Too protected, and therefore inaccessible. So I killed your guardian. I threw the hellfire at her while she watched me from above. Because she had what I coveted. She had the two of you. Pure symbols of what I had lost. Re-emergences. You've been here before, dozens of times, but never like this. Yes, it was cruel and selfish, but I had my reasons. Trust me, if I'd not done what I. . .if I'd not. . .your lives would have become much more miserable. I know the master plan. Well, what the plan was before I stepped in.

This is your time. This is your _Now_. And I am here to help you. Dean, I'll not have you cast into the fires of Hell. Sam, you will not take my place at Lucifer's side. But neither is there a heaven for you. Trust me, I've fought both sides, and I want neither. I just want to end.

So if you think you can kill me, then do so. But I hold the key to stopping this war, once and for all. I hold the key to redemption.

Just don't cast me back to Hell. That I do not deserve.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I watch their faces. They both look a little ill, and more than mystified.

Sam looks the most disturbed. I can see him sorting the facts through that magnificent mind of his, and I watch as his face falls into disbelief. I have given them one clue, one vital clue as to who I am, and of course Sam is the one who discovers it. He slumps back into the chair he had risen from.

Dean notices, and though he's afraid to take his eyes of me, he questions, "Sam?"

Sam is shaking in disbelief. He's put the pieces together, and come to a conclusion he can't live with. "No. You can't be."

I allow myself a smile, because I love to amaze.

"Can't be what, Sam?" Dean asks with urgency. He was never that good at verbal symbolism.

"It's him," Sam says quietly.

"Him who?" Dean's face tilts toward his brother, though his eyes are fixed on mine.

"_Him_." Sam's voice is a whisper, and he's gone another shade pale. He can't bring himself to voice my name over the swallow in his throat.

"No, I don't, who. . ."

I sigh at Dean's stubbornness, and let the yellow-gold in my eyes flash at him briefly.

Dean nearly falls. I feel pity for him, and make to stand from my chair to catch him, ignoring my bindings. He reaches for the table beside him and allows it to guide him heavily to a chair.

"Son of a bitch!"

"I've told you. My past I honestly can't remember, so I'm not so sure about the SOB thing."

"I killed you." Dean's voice is low.

"Apparently not."

His nose wrinkles as he fights back a snarl. He sounds as though he can barely speak. "You son of a bitch! I killed you with the colt!" He bolts up out of the chair. "I shot you, you died!"

I merely turn my hands palm-upwards as though to say, 'here I am'.

"You're really him," Sam says still dazed. "Azazel. I've read about you."

"Seems I'm quite the celebrity."

"Yellow-eyes," Dean spits. "The Yellow-Eyed Demon."

"Yes."

"You."

"Yes."

His jaw works. "Well, Azazel — Zach, whoever the hell you are, this time you're going to hell and you're staying there." He picks up his book, no if's ands or buts.

"After what I just told you?"

"Damn straight. What you just told me is a freakin lie! Demons lie!"

"I'm not a demon, Dean. I never was. And I'm not now."

"Then what the hell are you?" he asks, his voice deep and rough with emotion.

I shrug.

Dean turns on his heel away from me, breathing heavily. He turns again, and comes to stand over my bound form, his face pressing toward mine, his eyes bright. "You're going back, you fucking bastard, and I hope you rot," he says. "You killed my family. You killed_everything_I ever _believed_in!"

"Poor baby," I say cruelly, and almost mean it.

His fist meets my face. I snap to the side, and slowly work my jaw. I clench my fists and look up at him through narrowed eyes. "I dare you to do that one more time."

"Gladly." He lets fly again.

I tear from my ropes and catch hold of his fist before it meets, slowly bending it backwards, twisting, forcing him to his knees before me as I rise. Sam yells and runs at me, and I fling him against the far wall with a flash of my eyes. He's pinned like a butterfly on a board, open and beautiful.

I add pressure, seeing the pain in Dean's face, seeing the strain as he fights to keep himself whole. I bend over him. "You should have kept your anger in check, Dean. You'll never learn." I release both him and Sam, who lets his breath out in surprise, then rushes to pull Dean to his feet and snatch him back. Dean's attention is on me as he flexes his wrist.

"That pit made me what you saw," I said. "It will do the same to Sam. How do you think the demons are going to turn him? That place changes you."

"Because you were so good before!" Dean yells in disbelief.

"I didn't say that. But I wasn't Azazel before. I emerged as that being."

"But the legends. . ."

"Are twisted." I turn to Sam. "Azazel created this, Azazel caused that. It is distorted. Who has lived long enough to know the truth of it? You?"

I sigh heavily and sit in the chair, leaning to the side to rest my head against my hand. "Seriously. You boys wear me out."

Dean's right brow raises, and I laugh.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

We make an unsteady peace. Only because I didn't kill them, and they aren't sure how to kill me. Or what to do with me, for that matter.

I'm watching television as they speak in the corner. I try not to listen in, but I can't help it.

"What are we going to do?" Sam asks.

Dean's tilted back in his chair. He lets it down with a thump and leans forward. "You think he's really 'ole Yellow-Eyes?"

"I don't know." Sam shakes his head thoughtfully. "His story fits, but we killed that demon. I saw it, you saw it. The only thing we have to go on is what Casey told you."

"Yeah, and she could've told us more if you hadn't wasted her."

"Dean! She was going to kill you!"

"No, she wasn't. But you wouldn't have known that, now would you?" Dean raises his hand. "Look, forget it. I'd of done the same thing if I were in your shoes."

"Yeah. Not like you've never killed ruthlessly before."

"Me, sure. But not you." His eyes are fixed on Sam, wanting an explanation.

"Dean, not now. Not with. . ." Sam tilts his head toward me.

Dean glances at me, and pulls closer to Sam. "You get Bobby?"

"No, not yet. Not sure we should get him involved anyway."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want him hurt, that's why!"

"Sam, he might know how to send this thing back!"

"Why, because he knew that before?" Sam spits out sarcastically. "And what if this really is Yellow Eyes? You wanna blame yourself for Bobby's death, too?"

"Whoa, wait, what do you mean _too_?"

"Because you blame yourself for not looking out for Dad! And for what happened to me! I know you, Dean, you'll find a way to blame yourself for this."

"Okay, you know what?" Dean starts in disgust.

"You know it's true!" Sam cuts in angrily.

"Oh,_come_on!"

"It is." Sam's voice suddenly calms, and it infuriates Dean into silence.

"So no Bobby," he grumbles, after a moment or two.

"No," Sam says firmly.

I silently nod approval to myself. Good. That'll make things much easier. I quietly rise and take my leave.

I find Thomas on the street at a newsstand. He's looking at a paper, wondering if he should purchase it. I slap it down from his face. "Do you resent me?"

"For what?" He's used to my moods. He reaches down and picks up the ripped paper, putting money into an upturned palm that he doesn't even look at.

"You had died. I made you what you are."

I get a glib look. "Don't be ridiculous." He folds the paper, and walks away from me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two days pass before a decision is made. During this time, the boys are conspicuously absent. I follow them a little, then leave them alone. Their business is none of mine, and I do notice that Dean keeps a very watchful eye on his younger brother. Most of their time is spent in the huge libraries that seemed to weigh the city down with useless knowledge. Or in a bar, discussing the day's research. At one point they go into an old man's house, and emerge with a look of near revelation.

Okay, so I watch them more than I like to admit.

Thomas is gone as well, taking care of his business, and this seedy problem. I make a few calls to check in with my own affairs, and am convinced that everything is well. Other than financial support, I really serve no purpose in my own company. It is more than a well-oiled machine. It is the design itself in all its perfection at conception. Mistakes don't even think about happening, as though the very notion doesn't exist beyond the glass door. Would all companies be as fortunate.

Still, all their goings on leave me with nothing to do. So I grow nosy. Very nosy. And I start snooping. Now, I know everything there is to know about Thomas, and his stuff is boring. So I snoop in the boy's belongings.

The laptop is gone with them. Most of Sam's valued entries are password protected anyway, and though I could crack the code, I want to leave the man a little privacy. I am a decent soul, after all. And he still smells of innocence, even after everything that has happened to him, yet he isn't naive. He's the least naive person I've ever met. Oddly enough, if anyone is naive, it is Dean Winchester. He is a child in an adult's body. A bred warrior with a heart of gold. The classic example of giving without taking, and he is frustratingly clueless of his worth.

Sam isn't clueless, and I see the looks that he hides from his brother. I see him watching Dean sleep, I see the pain in his eyes. I feel the pain in his heart. I fear to touch him, for his longing reminds me so much of my own, which is why I want to end this for both of them, seeing as how I had a hand in it. Back when I was mad in my head. Not that I'm that much better now, mind you, but at least I think things through.

I've changed their destiny, and now they are living with the consequences. I've wondered time and time again if my own death would rectify things. Set them back on their original course of action. But the silver bullet that should have finished me, didn't. Well, it finished Azazel. Maybe it would take a second one to finish off Zachariah.

As it is, our time is running out. I can hear the Earthbound. Never before has this happened to me, and I'm not sure why it is happening now. Why just last night I caught one watching me while the others slept.

I don't remember what I was doing, but I had looked up and saw it peering at me. Leaning against the new window, peering in with a look of pure hatred, not moving, just staring at me with those huge eyes, one thin hand splayed on the glass at it watched. I remember I gasped and blinked, and it was gone. But to just glance up and see something so hideous had disarmed me, and I had been unable to sleep. Instead I turned on every light I could find, and turned the television up. Sam had come in, complaining, but I sent him back to bed with a glare that, I think, actually frightened him. Thomas decided to try and talk sense into me, and he sulked back as well. I woke the next morning to a velvet throw covering me, and an empty suite, with Paula Deen on the television drawling about how to make the best sour cream pound cake in the south.

Food Network. Good. For a moment I'd thought I'd found a lower level of Hell.

I've seen the Earthbound three other times. I've told no one. But I know when next they show, it will be to drag us all down with them, and there will be no way to stop it.

So, with these lovely thoughts parading in my head as I half-wonder if they've already got their thin claws on Sam and Dean, I sort through the Winchester baggage. And in Sam's bag, I find a leather book, swollen with well-thumbed pages and added sheets of paper. Intriguing. I sit on the edge of the bed and open it.

It is a record keeper of sorts. I read the first entry dubiously, then marvel at what I have found. I slowly lean back on the bed and read all of the accounts of the ruined life of one Jonathan Winchester.

Due to me. Of course.

tbc. . . .


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you so much for the reviews! I appreciate each and every one of them.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

And we don't.

I wake in darkness, no, more like Darkness, to someone prodding me in my side. I gasp and straighten, sit bolt upright, and dart my right hand out to grab whomever is poking me. "Who's there?"

"It's Sam." He sounds breathy, like he is recovering from sex, or running. I feel for his face, and he pushes my hand down. A light flickers before my eyes, and I wince away from it. "The hell d'you get a match?" I drawl, disoriented, and am ashamed. My vision clears, and I see a look of exasperation cross Sam's face. "Oh. Of course. Silly of me."

"Where's Dean?"

As it is, I'm not certain of my own name. I reach and feel the back of my head, trying to remember the last time I had a lump. Anger fuels me, and I can sense Sam backing away. "What?" I ask, irritably.

"Your eyes."

So, have I snapped back to Yellow Eyes now that I was in the pit? I wave Sam away. "Forget it. Play of the light."

"Do you seriously think I'd forget something like that?" He's against the wall, and for the first time I realize he's weaponless. He's one hundred percent on the defense, with only a tiny flame to save him, one that's about to burn his fingers.

"Hope you have a full box of those," I say as the fire flickers and dies.

"I don't. Dean!" He's shouting into the Dark, waiting for an answer. That sound is the only thing we can hope for from the Dark.

I stand. "Thomas?" I ask, not quite up to Sam's level of bellowing just yet. I clear my throat and raise my voice. "Thomas!"

"How did we get here?"

"The same way as last time. They just showed up and grabbed us."

"But I don't remember it. Why aren't we. . ."

"Prisoners? Good question." I pick a direction and pull Sam close to me, feeling his body tense. I sigh and look over my shoulder at him. "I could have killed you so many times, Sam. Can you just trust me for a minute?" I blink at the second match he's lit, and we look at the limitless passageway yawning ahead. "Okay," I amend. "You'll have to trust me for an hour. Maybe two." The Dark is swallowing the light, and there is no way to move at a speed that doesn't resemble a drugged snail.

We creep along the wall, lighting matches that seem to burn only seconds. Of course that means after about a minute we're in trouble, because Sam was correct about not having a full box on him. We resort to shuffling, plastered against the wall, his hand on my shoulder and my left hand reaching back for him, while our right hands scour the earthen wall. Roots snag us, making me wonder where the hell we are. It isn't the pit.

"Where are we?" Sam asks.

"Funny. I was just wondering that."

"Sam?"

I hesitate. The Dark has answered Sam's call.

"Dean?" Filled with hope, Sam pushes by me.

I grab hold of his arm, grinding his movement to a halt. "Wait," I practically hiss at him. "It could be a trick."

"That's my brother!" Sam insists, yanking away from me. We can't see each other, but we can feel the anxiety flowing between us like molten lava.

I fumble in the Dark and manage to catch hold of his arm again. "Just wait! Let him come to you."

"Sam, you down here?"

"I'm over here!" Sam calls out, and to his credit he does as I say, and stays put. After several moments a red glow lights the end of the tunnel, and Dean, lo and behold it _is_Dean, walks towards us carrying a lit torch.

He glances at me, but his face softens into relief for a moment when he sees Sam, before he snaps it back up to all-business-mode. "You okay?" It is a demand.

"I'm fine." Sam hovers around the light like a moth.

I huff and cross my arms. "I'm fine, too," I say.

I barely get a glance from him. "I can see that."

I don't care for his attitude. "Be careful, Dean. No telling what vile creatures may be lurking around here." It is a veiled threat.

"Oddly enough, the appearance of monsters is the one thing I can count on," Dean says, almost amiably.

"I hope that's not a personal remark," I say drily.

"Your call, not mine." And Dean dismisses me, looking around for a way out.

He dismisses me! I refuse to believe it. Even after what I've done, what I've told them, what I've shared with them, they do not trust me. So be it. I sigh heavily and lean back against the earthen wall.

Arms punch through it. Grey, flaking, putrid arms. They grab me, pull at me, so many limbs wrapping around my body. . .

"Zach!" Sam cries out, and I'm almost more stunned by his reaction than I am at being sucked into an earthen wall. Not Yellow-Eyes. Not Azazel.

Zach. He called me Zach.

I see both of them come for me, trying to peel away the decaying limbs. I'm being sucked back into the wall, and if I never really remembered before what fear feels like, I remember it now in startling, disturbing clarity. Panic overwhelms me, and I choke.

I turn frantic eyes to Dean, to Sam. "Don't let them take me!" I cry out. "Please!" Because once down there, I'm there for good. There will be no escape for me. I cry out as the splintered hands that tip the gruesome arms grab at my hair, pulling my head back into the dirt. "Sam! I'm begging you!"

Sam is yelling, pulling with all his might as Dean beats away the limbs, clawing at the dirt, trying his hardest to release me. He's actually trying to save me, they both are, and I've underestimated them so much. But it isn't enough. It never is. "Thank you," I whisper, looking at them like a wild mare, and hear my name screamed out as I vanish into Darkness.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

This is the true lair. I don't know why I never realized it before. Everything before, the dark figures, even that pit, is a mere shadow of this. All around me the Earthbound watch me, their eyes like stunted moss, their limbs like gnarled roots. They are spirits forever trapped, their thoughts soiled, their very being nothing more than mere grains shifting from place to place.

I am bound, like them. Roots hold me down, and they come from the dirt walls and stand over me, hover, dripping on my face, chattering like cracked bark. They touch me, watch me, shift to stand over me from a different place, and they drip. And I realize the drip is sap, streaming down in long, amber lines, and it burns my skin. It hardens, paralyzing me.

I strain to rise. Roots are wrapped around my arms, my legs, thighs, neck. I can't raise my head to see the figure approaching me, I have to look down the bridge of my nose. The form emerges, and I stop breathing.

Never before has the phrase "Et tu, Brute" meant so much to me.

Thomas walks toward me slowly. His grip tightens on the machete. "You asked before if I resent you," he says in a low voice. "Always, Zach. I always resent you."

"Thomas! Get me out of here. Please. I can't do this again."

"No."

I frown at him, at his eyes, at the large blade. "What are you doing?"

He says nothing.

I pull at the roots binding me. "Look, if this is about what I've done to you, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I don't know if the machete is meant to free me, or kill me. "I didn't mean to," I continue softly. "You know I would never hurt you."

"Oh, the things you'll say when you're in danger of being caught," Thomas says. "The many ways you'll twist and bend just to save your worthless ass. You did hurt me." He hovers, but such is his presence that I'm not certain if he's actually near me or not. His voice floats, then sinks into the walls. "You hurt me when we were young, with your eyes and lips and promises. You hurt me when you didn't know I was sick, when I practically died in your arms. And you hurt me when you brought me back to a living hell, because you couldn't bear to live without me. It never occurred to you that I could do without you."

He finally comes into full view. He looks drawn, haunted. "Do you think people want to live forever, Zach? Did you ask if I wanted this? Do you care? I will be around until the universe ends, and then I will live in empty limbo. I will be here when there is nothing left but God, and that thought scares the shit out of me because it bores me to tears. Did you think you were saving a good person, Zach? Did you love our friendship so much that it blinded you to who I am?"

"You are a good person, Thomas!" I strain against the roots, unable to understand what is happening. "You always have been."

"I watched you for centuries," he says. "Hovering just far enough behind you to get into your head. And I can tell you, you are not a good person, Zach. You never have been. And don't give me your 'levels of degree' speech. I heard that wasted on your wonderful Winchester friends."

I tug again at the restraints. "Thomas, fight it. It's the Earthbound," I insist. "They've got to you."

"Do you forget who put you in that pit in the first place?" he spits at me. "I didn't rescue you, Azazel. I merely grew tired of your company, and booted you back out."

"I am not Azazel!" I yell at him.

"You will always be Azazel, no matter how many times you try to redeem yourself, no matter what you rename yourself."

I shake my head slowly. "No." Images race back, memories that I had repressed started to flood my senses. A familiar figure hovering over me, reaching for me. "I was mad, delirious. It wasn't you."

"I put you down there. I watched you fall from a god to a human to nothing. I saw what you were doing, and I wanted to stop you. This was your torment, your punishment."

"It wasn't you!" I yelled. "The Earthbound aren't yours. They can't be."

"What? The beings of darkness, of despair, devised from a discarded need? Brought about from selfish desires that were lost? Do you think I can't understand that? My life was destroyed by you, _Zachariah_." He spat out my chosen name as one would spit out bile. "I became a monster. I had to leave everything I ever loved behind me."

"Don't say this."

"And you let that boy make a deal for his brother. You wanted that to happen, because once Dean is gone, Sam will fall into such despair that he will join us. And you wanted that. You want him to take your place."

"No."

"I leadthe Earthbound. I am Earthbound — and so are you."

"No!"

"You can't die, Zach."

"NO!"

"You're stuck here in limbo, just like we are." And his eyes darken, turn black, and I suddenly see him for what he has become. "And after this limbo comes another. Death is the relief of life. It is the living that is to be feared."

I look around me. The shadowed Earthbound are coming for me, bleeding out from the walls in black wisps, long fingers curling around the rocks like lichen.

"Do you want to live forever, Zach?"

"I denounce you," I say, then yell as they converge on me, "I DENOUNCE YOU!"

"You and what god?" Thomas snarls, and shoves the huge blade through me.

A light explodes into the cavern. The roots shrink back and I fall to my knees.

I look up to see a pyrotechnic display. Flares bathe the area in blood. More lights burst on, halogen, blinding, each one with an explosion of sound that tears my eardrums. I hear a chant, no, two chants, two voices in unison, and see two shadows walk out from the whiteness, holding one large book.

All around me the Earthbound are screaming shrilly, and shriveling. They try to scatter, long, thin hands covering their faces, hiding their sensitive eyes. One by one they burst into flame and squeal in torment as they slowly burn alive. Everywhere, squeals, cries, shrieks, pure fear. And I suddenly feel pain, intense pain, unlike anything I've ever felt.

A hand grabs mine. I'm pulled to my feet, crying in pain, and look into the eyes of a friend I haven't seen for so long, that friend I'd so loved when we were young. I look up, tears of pain and ecstasy dripping over my cheeks. My One, only he never knew.

He grips me tightly. "I was only trying to save you," he insists. "I do love you."

"Thomas!" I cry out in anguish as his face alights. I try to pull my grip back, but he holds it firmly, his skin cracking and peeling from his skull, which blackens almost immediately. I'm frantic, yanking away, feeling the hot bone crush my fingers. His eyes are gone, the sockets glow into mine, his mouth is open in a gruesome smile, and he crumbles. His grip disappears, and I'm left holding dust.

The pain intensifies. I can't breathe, I can't see. The smell is unlike anything I've ever experienced. All motion freezes, and I collapse.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I — feel.

I look around, scared. Sam is holding me, Dean leaning over me. Everything looks so dark, so grey, so unnatural. My eyes desperately search for the vibrancy that I remember from a lifetime ago. "It looks so cold. I don't understand." I'm shivering.

"What does?" Sam asks with a frown, but I'm barely able to comprehend it.

"It's so dark. . ." I can't begin to explain it, "so dead. It isn't supposed to be like this." I gasp as pain wracks my body, but this time it isn't a memory. It is all too real.

I grasp Sam's shoulder, and feel his free hand clench around mine. He's telling me to be still. Dean's hands brace my shoulders, his face close. Sam's hovers beside his, so that their hair is mingling, and blocking the sight of all the ugliness in the world, everything that the world has become; treacherous, unloving, uncaring, self-centered.

Everything I was, and still am.

I am a part of this. It is my nature. But I had forgotten how truly awful it is.

"I'm so sorry you must live in this," I say, realizing that for centuries, I've been seeing things through the rose-colored glasses of memory, and what is memory but what we want it to be? When something is bad enough, we make it better, either through denial or fantasy. This realization comes to me in a flash, and I suddenly want to let it go. Let it all go. The fantasy, the thoughts. I no longer belong here.

It is all I can do to look at them now. I reach out and wrap my fingers around the back of Dean's neck, pulling him close. "Don't – mess up," I gasp. "You can fix this. The Earthbound – they're not gone. They're waiting. Don't let the greed control you. Sam was fine when he died. Your greed has killed your soul, and his." I feel Dean tense, and he's blinking rapidly. "Fix this, both of you," I demand. "I couldn't do it. Thomas is gone, I'm gone. . .they'll come for you. . .if you don't fix this."

And in the blissful darkness, I feel them. I see their frantic faces peering down at me, their heads almost touching.

This world – fades – finally – and I wish them well in it.

END


End file.
